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A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


AND OTHER STORIES 





a 



I 











A BIT OF OLD IVORY 

AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 


Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
Mary T. Waggaman 
Mary E. Mannix 
Florence Gilmore 


Marion Ames Taggart 
P. G. Smyth 
Anna T. Sadlier 
Jerome Harte 


NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 


PRINTERS TO THE 
HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE 


PUBLISHERS OF 
benziger’s MAGAZINE 




Copyright, 1910, by Benziger Brothers 


© Cl. A 2 6 1 4 9 6 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


A Bit of Old Ivory. — B y Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 7 

The Tomkyns’ Telephone — B y Mary T. Wagga- 

man 29 

Mias Hetty’s Tramp.— B y Mary E. Mannix . . 43 

Bricks and Mortar. — B y Marion Ames Taggart . 61 

Chilly Con Carney.— B y P. G. Smyth ... 75 

Widow Lavelle’s Lots.— B y P. G. Smyth . . 93 

The Rokeby Ghost.— B y Mary T. Waggaman . 107 

When the Dumb Speak. — B y Marion Ames 

Taggart 121 

‘ What God Hath Joined.” — B y Anna T. Sadlier . 137 

Helena’s Jewels. — B y Mary E. Mannix . . . 155 

A Belated Planet.— B y Mary T. Waggaman . .171 

The Habit of Jerry. — B y Marion Ames Taggart . 185 
At the Turn of the Tide. — B y Mary T. Waggaman 197 
The Piebald Nag. — B y Anna T. Sadlier . . 209 

Bruin and Her Baby. — B y Jerome Harte . . 221 


5 





A Bit of Old Ivory 

BY MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 

No one would have imagined that Jane Dorrin 
was a creature of sentiment. Her very name was 
against her. Her appearance, too, precluded the 
idea, for she was small and dark and so slight that 
she was scarcely more than a bag of bones. Her 
life certainly gave little chance for anything save 
sternest duty. Her mother had been a fine, brave 
woman of much character tied to a husband of no 
vicious habits and a few characteristics, the chief 
being an utter incapacity to make a living. She 
had sewed herself nearly blind in the endeavor to 
educate Jane, who, with a fine taste for books, had 
left the convent of necessity to take up sewing as 
her mother had done. Between the girl and the 
woman there had been few words and perfect sym- 
pathy. When the mother died, Jane locked up her 
heart. Some day it might unlock for some fortu- 
nate one who bore Love for a key, and he would 
receive a golden store indeed, largess for a king’s 
ransom. 

Jane’s attitude toward her father was all ex- 
7 


8 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


pressed in a few words of her dying mother, .who 
had murmured: 

“Take care of your father, Jane. Don’t let 
him miss me.” And Jane had answered quietly, 
“Yes, mother.” 

She had kept her promise. Her father, old, 
feeble, inert, had missed no creature comforts, for 
she had worked early and late to keep the little cot- 
tage free from debt and feed and clothe the poor 
old man, for whom the great beautiful world held 
so little because his owu heart had naught but 
himself. Housework, stitching, waiting on the 
invalid six days in the week, Mass on Sundays 
and holydays — that was all life held for “ little 
Jane Dorrin,” as the village neighbors called her. 

But within the gentle heart what strange 
things lay ! Hope, that bright-eyed visitant, 
sprang eternal and whispered happy possibilities 
to her. Some day how different it would all be. 
Some one would come, she knew not how nor 
where, but somehow, somewhere, who would un- 
derstand all her fancies. In the whiteness of her 
maiden dreams she saw him, strong and gentle, 
and as she thought, her great dark eyes would 
burn and her dark cheek glow until she was 
almost handsome. 


MARY F. NIXON-RQULET 0 

He would come from foreign parts and would 
bring her, she knew not in what shape, a bit of 
old ivory. In the little inland town in which 
she lived, Jane had never seen anything of this 
kind, but her mother had told her of an uncle, 
a sailor, who had come from over seas and 
brought many wonderful things in the soft, 
creamy carvings of the Orient. Jane had always 
wanted to see them, to possess a piece of ivory, to 
feel for herself the smooth perfection of its finish. 

Where other girls read silly novels to feed their 
imaginations, Jane sat and dreamed her story, 
but all the time she worked, and her gentle life 
of daily sacrifice went on. Not spoiling her — 
hers was too sweet a nature to be soured, but 
ripening the buds of gentleness and patience into 
flowers. The village was a provincial one, the 
people pleasant, friendly souls who exchanged 
receipts and gossiped genially when they met. 
Jane had no intimates among them, though she 
“ sewed up ” nearly all the feminine portion of 
the town. They all liked her; they all told her 
their affairs, never noticing the fact that she 
never talked about herself, or if they did, laying 
her reticence to the fact that she had nothing to 
tell. 


10 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


The year her father died was Jane’s hardest 
time. In her gentle, tenacious way she loved the 
helpless old man, whose dependence upon her 
drew out all the motherliness within her, and it 
was terrible to have him leave her entirely alone. 
She went back to work, a little quieter in her 
black frock, but just the same sweet Jane Dorrin, 
quaint and demure as her name. 

“Miss Jane,” said Mrs. Bent, up at the large 
white house on the hill, one day in May, “ would 
you take a boarder?” 

“ I don’t knoWj Mrs. Bent. I never thought of 
such a thing. Why ? ” 

“ Well, my house is full to overflowing this 
summer. We are going to have a family reunion 
in June, and my daughter has asked friends to 
visit us, and her wedding is in September, and 
altogether I haven’t a room to spare. And right 
on top of everything comes a letter from my 
brother, the artist, you know. He has just come 
from Borne, and he wants to bring his little 
girl here. She is far from strong, poor little 
thing. She’s like her mother was. My brother 
wants quiet, and you know my house is a poor 
place to And that, even if I had a room to spare. 
The young folk always have something going on 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


11 


— quite right, too — ” the merry little matron, 
mother of six happy, hearty children, laughed 
genially. “ Now, your cottage is quiet and pretty 
as can he ; why can’t you let Hugh have your two 
front rooms for himself? He needs a studio, 
3 r ou see, and you can take the little girl in with you. 
I’m sure it would be just what Hugh would like, 
and he can afford to pay whatever you want for 
your trouble. Wouldn’t you like to stop sewing 
a while, anyway ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Jane hesitated. “ My side 
does hurt rather badly at times. I’d like to 
have a child around, and you have always been 
so good to me, Mrs. Bent, if it would be any ac- 
commodation to you, your brother may come.” 

“ Well, I’m glad that’s off my mind,” Mrs. 
Bent said briskly. “ They’ll be here next week, 
and you’ll have time to get things ready, though 
you’ll not have much to do, for your house is 
always like a new pin.” 

The week of preparation was a busy one for 
Jane. Her cottage was a quaint little square 
house of a story and a half, and she had it all 
clean and shining from top to bottom. Mr. 
Erskine had written his sister from New York 
that he was very much pleased with the arrange- 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


12 

ments she had made. The little girl was to share 
the large attic room with Jane, and she had 
expended great thought and care upon it. A 
little child to take care of! What happiness it 
would be ! she thought, for she loved children 
with the passion of one to whom they have been 
denied. 

The little room was very dainty with its white 
walls, its two white-draped beds, its plain deal 
chairs and snowy curtains, on the walls a simple 
print of Our Lady and one of Our Lord blessing 
the children. Flowers were on the dresser and 
downstairs they bloomed in every room, for the 
garden was full of the dear old-fashioned posies 
and a fragrant yellow rose clambered over the 
porch, its golden blooms like sunlight through 
green leaves. 

“ Peace and quiet at last,” thought Hugh Er- 
skine, as he came up the path, holding Elfrida by 
the hand. “ And there stands the incarnation of 
peace,” as he caught sight of Jane’s slim figure 
in the rose-crowned door. 

He was so grave and quiet a man, it scarce 
seemed the bit of thistledown that danced beside 
him could be his. Elfrida was a slight, delicate 
fairy of five, pale, almost ethereal looking, yet 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


13 


full of fire and spirit, an energy too great for her 
strength. 

“ Who are you ? ” she inquired, fixing two great 
blue eyes upon the little seamstress. 

“I am Jane Dorrin,” she replied calmly. 

“ I like you, Jane Dorrin,” said Elfrida — the 
Elf her father called her. 

“ I am glad to hear it/’ replied Jane. 

“ Say ‘ Miss Dorrin/ ” said Mr. Erskine ; but 
Jane flashed upon him her rare smile, the first 
glimpse he had had of her eyes, and it startled 
him. 

“ Please allow her to say my name. Every one 
here calls me Jane Dorrin,” she said. 

“ IPs a dear name,” Elfrida proclaimed. “ I’m 
glad you’re named that. I’m glad I’m going to 
sleep in your room. I won’t be seeing things 
then — ” the child’s eyes were wide with a strange 
terror. 

“ There is nothing to see here,” Jane’s tone was 
matter-of-fact. "Will you have your tea now, 
and then I’ll put you to bed ? ” 

She noted with satisfaction the hearty appe- 
tites displayed by her guests, and her quick eye 
caught Mr. Erskine’s air of approval. No one 
could have failed to approve the dainty supper, 


14 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


tiny little biscuits, flaky and hot, fresh butter, 
snowy cottage cheese, thick cream and strawber- 
ries with crisp cookies for dessert. 

“ Good night, daddy,” said Elfrida, as he bore 
her upstairs to the snowy room under the eaves. 
“You can go back to Italy if you like, but I’m 
going to stay here all my life, right here with 
Jane Dorrin.” 

“ It’s love at first sight, is it. Elf ? ” he laughed. 
“ But what would father do without you ? ” 

“ You’d paint and smoke, I suppose. But you 
can stay here with us, too, can’t he?” to Jane, 
who laughed and tucked the little girl in bed, 
as the child murmured, “I like you real much, 
I do, Jane Dorrin.” 

When Jane came downstairs next morning the 
Sunday sun was gilding all to glory and the 
May air was sweet and kind. Birds were twitter- 
ing everywhere, and as she picked a bunch of 
purple and white lilacs for breakfast some of the 
happiness of air and sky stole into her face. 
She was a quaint little figure in her neat lilac 
calico morning frock, and Mr. Erskine smiled 
pleasantly at her as she came up to the porch, 
the dewy bunch of flowers in her hand, the morn- 
ing brightness in her eyes. 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


15 


“ You are an early bird, Miss Dorrin. Where 
is your worm?” 

She looked up at him, and he noticed how her 
smile lighted up her face. 

“ What are you, an early bird too ? ” she asked. 

“ Perhaps I’m the worm — at any rate I’m 
fairly caught,” he smiled. “You have a perfect 
morning for us, 

* Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 
The bridal of the earth and sky.’ 

I am glad Elfrida takes so kindly to you, Miss 
Dorrin. She is a peculiar child, and likes few 
people.” 

“ She will like me,” Jane spoke certainly, but 
without conceit. “'I love children and they un- 
derstand that.” 

“Yes — it is love and sympathy — ” his voice 
was musing. A quick glance at his face showed 
her he was looking far away, and feeling that 
his thoughts were far away also, she stole in to 
begin her dainty breakfast before going to Mass. 

“You go to early church?” he asked, as she 
appeared again upon the porch, prayer-book 
in hand. “ You are very good.” 

“ No. It’s not being good doing the things you 
like, and I like it best then, it is so still and quiet. 


16 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


Sometimes one can almost hear the angel wings 
about the altar,” she replied with her grave little 
smile, and then she sped down the flower-bor- 
dered walk. The world seemed strangely beauti- 
ful that day. She prayed with unwonted fervor. 
She went about her duties with a lighter step. 
And that day was but the presage of a happy sum- 
mer. Mr. Erskine was of necessity often drawn 
into the gay life of his sister’s home, but Elfrida 
was Jane’s shadow. To all entreaties to go to 
her aunt’s the wilful little maid replied: 

“ I must stay with my Jane Dorrin. She has 
no one but me.” 

The little girl grew stronger each day, tanned 
by the sun, happy in the sunshine of love which 
Jane shed upon her. 

J ane was very happy too. Service to this little, 
dependent creature brought out all the womanli- 
ness of her nature, and the pleasant outdoor life 
brought health to her cheek. Of Mr. Erskine 
at first she saw but little, but he joined them in 
the garden for a few moments at a time each 
day. Then he wished to paint Elfrida’s portrait, 
and the only way the naughty little girl could 
be kept quiet was by carrying the easel to the 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


17 


grape arbor, with the promise that Miss Dorrin 
would stay with her. 

Thus an hour a day was spent, and the child 
would sit as still as the Sphinx while the soft 
voice of her friend told her stories, quaint little 
stories of field and wood, how the squirrel’s tail 
grew so large, why the larkspur is so tall, or what 
made the dove’s note so sad. 

“ Elfrida is at her best with you, Miss Dorrin,” 
said the father. “Have you cast a spell upon 
her?” 

“No,” she smiled gently at him, but Elfrida 
was up in arms in a moment. 

“ She loves me,” she said defiantly. 

“ I love you, too, little daughter.” 

“ But 3'ou love me like a man, daddy, and she’s 
just a grown-up me and so she understands every 
single thing about me.” The child looked at her 
devotedly, and Jane smiled. 

“The eternal feminine, Mr. Erskine. What 
mere man can ever hope to comprehend?” It 
was a roguish glance she gave him and he 
answered fervently: 

“Not I, Miss Dorrin,” thinking to himself, 
“there is more in this bit of village demureness 
than I surmised.” 


18 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


After that he was oftener at the cottage than 
his sister liked, pleading his painting as an ex- 
cuse. He liked that quiet little garden with its 
huge elm tree, its quaint little grape arbor, its 
lilac and snow-ball bushes, its beds of old-fash- 
ioned posies, and he liked its mistress. She was 
a baffling creature. He would hear Elfrida’s 
shouts of merry laughter, see glimpses of lilac 
calico through the bushes, seek out the twain 
and find Miss Dorrin calmly shelling peas under 
the arbor, Elfrida beside her smiling and happy. 

“ What is the fun ? ” he asked one day. “ May 
I share it?” 

“ It was purely feminine nonsense,” said J ane 
calmly. “ It would not appeal to your masculine 
greatness at all, sir.” 

"Now you are poking fun at me before my 
very face,” he said. “ If s not fair.” 

“ It would be more unfair behind your back, 
would it not?” she asked. 

“ To think you would do it at all,” he said. 

She did not answer, but gave him one glance 
from her great eyes, a gleam so full of merry 
roguishness that he smiled in appreciation. 

“ She’s my Jane Dorrin,” Elfrida had been too 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


19 


long out of the conversation and spoke eagerly. 
Jane flushed a brick-warm color. 

“ ‘ No one denies it of you, Sairy Gamp/ ” she 
quoted, as she gathered up her work and sought 
the house. 

“ A gentlewoman born, bred by a gentle- 
woman,” he mused to himself. “Take her out 
of these surroundings into which she fits so per- 
fectly, would she have this quaint, elusive charm, 
I wonder?” 

The summer waned. One day Elfrida was 
turned loose in an unused portion of the attic 
to rummage delightedly in the old trunks, and a 
glorious time she had with all the treasures found 
there. 

“ Oh, Jane Dorr in, what are these lovely 
things?” she asked at last, diving into a big 
trunk far under the eaves. 

“ Be careful, dear, those are my mother's wed- 
ding clothes. I will show them to you.” 

With reverent hands she unfolded the soft, 
creamy gown, the delicate veil, yellowed with age. 

“I wore that veil for my first communion,” 
she said. 

“ Oh, how lovely ! Do put them on for me, 
please do,” the little girl begged. 


20 A BIT OF OLD IVORY 

“ Mother and I were just of a size.” Jane 
slipped into the silk gown, which fell in long 
lines about her slight figure. She threw the 
veil over her head. 

“ Oh, Jane Dorrin, you’re lovely ! You should 
always wear silk,” cried the little girl ecstatically. 

“ Always,” said a voice at the door, and Jane 
glanced up to find Mr. Erskine watching her. 
She flushed. 

“I was amusing Elfrida,” she said, starting 
to pull off the veil. 

“ Don’t touch it,” he commanded, laying a de- 
taining hand on hers, the artist within him 
stirred to life. “ I wish you would let me paint 
you like that. You should be the Irish lady in 
< Eich and rare were the gems she wore,’ yourself 
the fairest gem. • You are like a bit of old ivory, 
itself the rarest thing in all the world.” 

She gave him a startled glance and her eyes 
fell. 

“You must paint my Jane Dorrin just like 
that,” commanded Elfrida. 

“If she will allow me.” Mr. Erskine was his 
old grave self again. “Will you?” 

“ To please Elfrida,” she answered, and though 
he knit his brows he had to be content. 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


21 


She sat for him many times in the old ivory 
gown. About her throat he clasped a rare collar 
of antique Florentine gold, a chain of topaz fell 
to her slim waist, a splendid topaz fastened the 
creamy veil. Eegal she looked and queenly, with 
the almost nun-like purity of her face framed 
in its midnight hair, the strange, elusive fire of 
her dark eyes gleaming upon him. She suited 
well the lines he wrote beneath the painting, of 
that old story of the Irish maid of the days of 
Brian Boru, who, attired in silks and gems, went 
to and fro in the land unharmed, in her sweet 
chastity of look and mien respected by all. 

“ It is a -wonderful picture; not a picture of 
me, but of your idea,” she said when he had 
finished, and the three comrades stood to gaze 
upon the quiet figure, instinct with life against 
its cool background of Irish hills and shamrock 
vales. 

"It is a picture of you,” he said, "since you 
gave me the idea.” 

“ It’s a picture of my own Jane Dorrin,” said 
Elfrida jealously. Her father laughed. 

“ It’s a good thing we have the picture to take 
with us when we leave you, Miss Dorrin,” he said. 

“ x sha’n’t leave her, not never,” Elfrida cried 


22 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


passionately, kissing the slim brown hand of her 
beloved, and Jane flushed as she heard him 
murmur : 

“ I wish you never had to, child.” 

That night she sat late upon the rose-covered 
porch, breathing in the beauty of the night. In 
the garden tall cosmos swayed in the breeze like 
snowy angel flowers; the stately asters of the 
garden path stood like sentinels, the scent of 
honeysuckle was wafted through the air. Elfrida 
was asleep upstairs, her father was at his sister’s. 
The little place was still save for the hushed 
twittering of tiny birds within the trees. The 
moon rose in soft radiance over all and Jane felt 
her pulses stirred with all this beauty. Ro- 
mantic, sentimental, in her love of beauty, fate 
had well-nigh starved Tier soul in her grim life; 
but this summer seemed strangely full of it. 

“ What are you thinking of, Miss Dorrin ? ” 
Mr. Erskine’s voice startled her as he came 
around the house unseen. 

“ I scarcely know.” She was lying back in 
an easy chair, a loose white scarf thrown over her 
head like a coif. “ J ust the stillness of the night 
and the beauty of it. It must seem small to you 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


23 


who have seen all the beauty of the world, even 
Italy, land of dreams.” She sighed. 

“ I have seen nothing fairer in all my life than 
what I gaze on now — ” he was looking at her 
face as he spoke, but she said with gentle un- 
consciousness : 

“This suits your mood, perhaps. Nothing is 
lovely to us unless we are attuned to it at the 
moment.” 

He was silent, struck by her words. Was she 
right in a deeper sense than she meant? Did she 
only appeal to his mood, and would his deepening 
feeling for her pass with the mood? No, he felt 
sure of himself. He knew that he loved this 
quiet little soul as he had never dreamed of love, 
passionately, fervently, with a tenderness and de- 
votion which only love born of truest respect 
could engender. 

No one would have dreamed that such thoughts 
lay within his breast as his grave voice drew her 
into talk. Drawn on by his sympathy she spoke 
out her inmost thoughts, telling more of her 
dreams and fancies than even she had spoken to 
herself. And in. turn he told her of his travels, of 
quaint bits _of. sea '.and land, .of ^strange.happenings, 


24 A BIT OF OLD IVOR? 

holding her, like Desdemona, spellbound with eager 
listening. 

“Ah, could I only go — see all these wonders, 
get outside of things,” she flung out her hands 
with a little gesture of longing, then rose and 
stood beside him. “ See this bud half opened to 
the lovely world! It grows behind the pillar 
where no ray of sunlight reaches to its heart to 
warm it into flower. It never basks in the 
warmth of radiant day. Cool, quiet, it is always 
in the twilight until it droops and falls. It has 
never really lived — ” she stopped abruptly. 
“ Why do you make me talk to you ? ” she asked. 
“ I have never spoken so to any one.” 

“ Is not the rose content ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” she gave him a quick, strange look. 
“ She has no one to tell her that the world has 
fairer sights than her quiet home. Good-night,” 
and before he could speak again she was gone. 

The weeks sped on : it was nearly time to leave 
Elmville, but Elfrida was loud in her protests. 

“I will not go away,” she cried; “I never, 
never want to leave my Jane Dorrin,” and her 
father’s heart echoed the words. 

The day he was to leave she came to him. 

“I am afraid you will have to spare Elfrida 


MARY F. N1X0N-R0ULET 


25 


to me a little longer. She has wakened with a 
feverish cold, and does nothing but cry and say 
she will not go away. I am afraid she will fret 
herself ill if you can not calm her. Can you 
not leave her with me, go to perfect your arrange- 
ments, and return for her ? ” 

“ If you wish her to remain,” he said, “ I shall 
miss her very much.” 

“ I shall miss her very much when she goes,” 
she answered gently. 

“ Maybe I shall not be able to return. In that 
case I shall send for her,” he said. Her calm 
indifference to him irritated him. To care so 
much, to see her care so little — it was mad- 
dening ! 

“ I shall take the best care of her,” she said; 
“ and I bid you good-by. You have been a most 
considerate guest. The summer has been a pleas- 
ant one.” 

“ You have been most kind to us. I want you 
to let me give you a little remembrance,” he 
said. “It is just a trifle to show you that we 
appreciate your goodness to us, Elfrida and I. 
It is something I prize beyond its money value. 
When I was a boy my mother had it. An uncle 
brought it from ‘over the sea/ as they said in 


26 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


those times, and in all my wanderings it has been 
with me. Somehow, I have a fancy that you will 
like it. Will you keep it and think of the giver 
sometimes? It is but a bit of old ivory.” He 
put in her hand an old ivory cross yellow with 
age, the edges worn with much handling. She 
gave him a strange glance. 

“ Thank you,” she said ; “ I shall always keep 
it.” 

A month later he returned. She heard his 
eager step upon the porch, and he found her 
within the little arbor where they had so often 
sat. The fields were a glory of goldenrod and 
asters, the trees all scarlet and gold like a tri- 
umphal trumpet, the sky a melange of white and 
blue. 

“ How do you do ? ” she said simply ; “ have you 
come back for your Elf ? ” 

“No,” he spoke quickly, “I have come back 
for you.” 

He held her hand in a close pressure. “ Will 
you marry me, Elfrida’s Jane Dorrin?” 

“No,” she said quietly. 

“ Why not ? ” his voice was harsh. 

“When I marry a man,” her true eyes looked 
into his, then fell, but her proud head did not 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 


27 


droop, “it shall be because I love him, and be- 
cause he wants me for himself, not for his child.” 

He drew her a little closer to him. 

“ I want you.” How gently he spoke. “ I 
thought you could not care for me, so I went away. 
I came back because I could not live without you. 
I love you, Jane. Will you not try to love me?” 

She looked long into his eyes. What vistas 
lay before her ! What sweet companionship of 
souls attuned in every sense! Softly her hand 
stole to her breast where, half concealed, lay the 
ivory cross. 

“ I do not need to try,” she said sweetly ; 
“ when you brought me this, I knew you were 
my dream-knight come to me.” 

He drew her to him with his strong arm, rev- 
erently raising the cross to his lips. A little 
voice said pettishly : 

“But she’s my Jane Dorrin,” as Elfrida eyed 
them disconsolately. 

“ Won’t you say c our,’ little daughter ? ” the 
father said, and Jane gently stroked the child’s 
hair as she said softly: 

“ Don’t you think my heart is big enough for 
two, darling?” 


28 


A BIT OF OLD IVORY 


Two pictures held the gaze of crowds at the 
spring exhibition of the Academy. All wondered 
at their beauty, the initiated saying glibly, “ Er- 
skine’s work, you know; said to be portraits of 
his wife; very remarkable, indeed — ” 

One was the painting of the Irish maid, and 
was labeled “ Eich and rare were the gems she 
wore;” the other, even finer perhaps, was the 
likeness of a small, slender woman in creamy 
white, upon her breast an ivory cross, within 
her dark eyes a wonderful light, and beneath the 
painting the simple title, “ A Bit of Ivory.” 


The Tomkyns’ Telephone 

BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN 

Aunt Betty (she was aunt to half Linville) was 
“ thinking it over” So few things required 
“ thinking over ” in Aunt Betty Tomkyns’ well-or- 
dered way that the process proved a disastrous one. 
She scorched the tea towels, salted the apple sauce, 
and sweetened the butter before she roused from 
absorption into resolve. 

“ Brat it all, Fll hev the thing, father.” 

“ Hev what ? ” asked Uncle Si, who was 
smoking peacefully by the fire — a placid figure- 
head to the matrimonial bark Aunt Betty had 
steered successfully for forty years. 

“The tellyphone,” was the answer. “Land 
sakes, there I ? ve turned over the vinegar cruet! 
Looks ez if everything was going wrong-sided 
for me to-day. That man was here agin this 
morning, and he does talk convincing, I must 
say. He Tows it’s cl’ar flying into the face of 
Providence not to hev a tellyphone when it’s wait- 
ing for you at a dollar and a half a month. I’ve 
been sot agin the things, I must say, drefful 
29 


30 


THE TOMKYNS ’ TELEPHONE 


sot. Looked to me like ’twas agin natur’ to 
be talking to folks a dozen miles away. The 
Lord never intended tongues or ears to reach 
so fur.” 

“An* He didn’t,” said Uncle Si with an em- 
phatic nod; “you was right thar, mother. They 
reach fur nuff now without putting wires to ’em.” 

“But we ortn’t to be hard-headed, as the telly- 
phone man said. We ortn’t to sot ourselves dead 
agin progress, father. If our gran’thers had sot 
themselves hard-headed agin progress, we’d ’a’ 
been flying the English flag instead of the Star 
Spangled Banner, and paying King Edward taxes 
on our tea.” 

“ That’s so,” answered Uncle Si, puffing re- 
flectively. “ It’s going a little fur back fer an 
argyment, but that’s so, mother.” 

“ He says he put one in for Elder Jones, and 
Abner G-oldwin, and Squire Bond, and they 
wouldn’t give them up for ten times their cost. 
He put one in for Dr. Grimes, and he vows 
it’s as good as a new horse and buggy — folks 
just put their babies to the thing and let ’em 
crow and cry and cough. He put one in for 
the new Roman Catholic church just up the hill, 
and he says he could swing ours on the same 


MARY T. WAOGAMAN 


31 


wire and take off fifty cents. He says thar’s no 
telling the sorrow, sin and tribbilation that a tel- 
ephone in your house saves. Suppose you or 
me was to be tuk sick in the dead of night, 
or was to be robbed or murdered — what a com- 
fort that tellyphone would be! He heerd of a 
woman that was calling the police through the 
tellyphone while she was heving her throat cut, 
and they got thar in time to catch the chap 
before she died. And these here Bottoms is 
mighty lonely, father, and we’ve got the name of 
being forehanded, to say nothing of grandmother’s 
silver spoons and forks that hev been heavy on 
my mind, day and night, since she guv them 
to me with her dying breath forty years ago. 
Yes, I’ve been thinking it over all day, and I’ve 
about made up my mind we’ll have the telly- 
phone.” 

“ Jest as you say, mother, jest as you say,” 
answered Uncle Si, a trifle uneasily; “we’ve done 
pretty well forty years with our tongues and ears 
as the Lord made ’em — but it’s jest as you say.” 

And the “tellyphone” was installed in the 
upper hall of the Tomkyns’ farmhouse next day, 
Aunt Betty excitedly watching the procedure, and 


32 


THE TOMKYNS ’ TELEPHONE 


Uncle Si smoking a reflective pipe in his easy 
chair near by. 

For a week or more there was all the charm 
of a new possession. Aunt Betty called up Sister 
Jones, and learned, with some difficulty, that 
she was very bad with the rheumatism. She had 
a feeble communication with Cousin Mary Ann 
Green about a recipe for pumpkin pie. She in- 
terviewed the “ store ” telephonically, and heard 
eggs had gone down three cents a dozen, and they 
were out of green ginger. Then there was a lull 
in business. The farm life went on in its old 
tranquil way; neither sin, sorrow, nor “ tribbila- 
tion” demanded any interference of the deus ex 
machina that was so potent a regulator of the 
busy world without. 

“ Looks as if eighteen dollars a year was a 
good deal to give fur a little thing like that,” 
commented Uncle Si, with the quiet shrewdness 
that had made the bottom meadows swell his bank 
account far into the five figure column. “ Tears 
to me Fd a deal ruther hev a good eight-day 
clock.” 

“ Eight-day clock!” echoed Aunt Betty with 
the acrimony of the self-doubting ; “you kin be 
the greatest dunderhead, Si Tomkyns ! What on 


MARY T. WAGOAMAN 


33 


arth do we want with another eight-day clock? 
An’ here, if we need to call the doctor or the 
deputy sheriff or the undertaker, we’ve just got 
to whisper a word in that tellyphone, and they are 
here. It suttinly would be a comfort if Dick 
hed one — ” 

“ What fur ? ” asked the old man. “ ’Pears to 
me ez if you and your darter-in-law, mother, are 
a deal peacefuler and quieter a dozen miles 
apart.” 

“ I ain’t a hankering after my darter-in-law,” 
and Aunt Betty’s face suddenly grew hard and 
bitter. “ You can take to her if you please — you 
alius was a fool ’bout a pretty face and a soft 
voice, father, and Dick can do as he pleases; he 
is a man of thirty, and I suppose he’d a right 
to choose his own wife. But I mean to do as 
I please, too. I’ve been a God-fearing Christian 
all my life, and I ain’t going to uphold no idol- 
worshiping. It was bad enuff for Dick — to turn 
from all his own church members and marry 
a Popish wife; but when she set up an altar 
in his very room, with graven images and cross 
and candles — ” 

“’Twarn’t an altar, mother,” interposed Uncle 
Si, apologetically; “ Mandy calls it an oratory.” 


34 


THE TOMKYNS ’ TELEPHONE 


“ I don’t see no difference/’ said Aunt Betty, 
sharply. “Dick ortn’t to hev it. He was raised 
a Bible Christian and ortn’t to hev it, and when 
I told him Handy was a snare and a pitfall in 
his way, and a light leading to destruction, as 
Preacher Wilkins said — ” 

“ He swore at Wilkins, I’ll be bound,” chuckled 
Uncle Si; “wouldn’t have been my boy if he 
hadn’t. It’s a poor sort of a man that won’t 
stand by his wife, ’specially a pretty wife like 
that.” 

“ I’ve done with her,” said Aunt Betty. “ Dick 
as much as told me ’twas none of my business, 
or his, either, to meddle with Handy’s prayers; 
that she was as near an angel as could be made 
and was making earth heaven for him. I haven’t 
been in his house since, and I’m not going to 
it,” concluded Aunt Bett}^, her tongue and temper 
somewhat sharpened by the tinge of rheumatism 
that had come on with the first touch of the frost. 

It needed no telephone instructions from Dr. 
Grimes to teach her how to fight this wintry 
enemy. Rubbed well with “poke” linilnent, 
swathed in red flannel, with hot bricks to her 
feet, and a hop bag to her head, the mistress 
of Tomkyns’ farm had retired early to the big 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


35 


four-poster, that, with its French calico curtains, 
its downy feather-bed and heaping snowdrift of 
pillows, was a throne of Morpheus that defied mod- 
ern rivalry or reproach. Outside the wind was 
moaning and sighing dolefully, sending the au- 
tumn leaves before it in scurrying flight, while 
Jack Frost, with steal thier touch, was nipping the 
blooms in Aunt Betty’s garden. But the harvest 
was garnered, Uncle Si’s big granaries were burst- 
ing with golden store, the apples were barreled, 
and the cider pressed. Within the tight old farm- 
house all was warmth and peace. 

Aunt Betty’s groans had died away into a gentle 
snore. Uncle Si’s pipe had dropped from his hand, 
and he was nodding away into a wintry dream- 
land; old Towser, crouched on the hearth rug, 
was dozing in comfort, and Tabby curled up in 
her mistress’ vacant chair was blinking sleepily 
at the leaping blaze, when a sudden sharp ring 
sounded through the peaceful quiet. 

“ The tellyphone ! ” cried Aunt Betty, starting 
with a wakeful groan from her pillow. 

“ The tellyphone ! ” echoed Uncle Si, drop- 
ping his pipe with a crash. 

“ Ting-a-ling, ling, ling, ling,” went the shrill 


36 


THE TOMKYNS’ TELEPHONE 


call of modern progress through the quiet old 
house — “ ting-a-ling.” 

“ See what’s wanted, father,” cried Aunt Betty, 
impatiently. 

“I daren’t, mother,” faltered Uncle Si, for 
whom neither bear nor wildcat had any terrors; 
“ suthing must have struck the thing, it’s going 
like it would bust.” 

“ Ting-a-ling, ling, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling,” 
came fiercely from the insistent telephone. 

“ You’ll hev to go to it, father; I can’t,” groaned 
Aunt Betty, in waking pain. “ Go listen, or it 
will never shut up.” 

“Jest as you say, mother ; jest as you say. Drat 
the thing — I never heerd it go on like this! 
Which end talks, mother?” asked Uncle Si, who 
had never ventured to approach his new possession. 

“ Take down the receiver, and put it to your 
ear,” commanded mother in the pilot voice that 
had steered Uncle Si through many a domestic 
storm. “ Now listen, listen hard. What does it 
say?” 

“ It’s jest a buzzing, a buzzing like — No ! 
Lord, some one’s talking. It’s Mandy — She’s a 
calling ‘ Father, father ’ — a calling me.” 

“ Mandy ! ” gasped Aunt Betty. “ Mandy ! She 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


37 


is being robbed or murdered, maybe. Ask her 
what’s the matter, quick.” 

“ What’s the matter?” shouted Uncle Si in a 
quavering basso. 

“ Oh, father, father,” came the feeble cry, 
“ come to us, father. Dick is dying — dying beg- 
ging for you. Come to him for God’s sake. Come 
to—” 

But the receiver had dropped from the old 
man’s shaking hand ; his ashen lips could shape 
no word. 

“ Father,” cried Aunt Betty, sharply, as he 
tottered to her side, “ father, what is it?” 

“ Our boy ! ” was the hoarse answer. “ Our 
Dick, mother ! Suthing’s happened to him. 
Mandy called to me — he was dying.” 

“ Dying ! ” shrieked the mother ; “ Dick dying ! 
Oh, no, no ! You heard wrong, father, you heard 
wrong.” 

“ No, ’twas plain ’nuff,” said the old man, 
huskily. Father/ it called, ‘Dick is dying, 
and begging you to come to him.’ I must go, 
mother — I must go and leave you.” 

“ Leave me ! ” echoed Aunt Betty, springing up 
from her pillows. “ Leave me here, and my boy 
dying ! Si Tomkyns ! Leave me, his mother ? I’ll 


38 THE TOMKYNS’ TELEPHONE 

be dressed in five minutes. Hitch up the sorrel 
mare and we’ll go.” 

“ Mother, mother, out of your sick bed ? It will 
be your death,” groaned Uncle Si. 

“What do I care? What do I care?” she 
cried, fierce in her mother-love and pain. “ Quick, 
quick ; hitch up, Silas, and take me, take me to my 
boy.” 

And he took her at her word. From the peace 
and warmth and shelter of this downy nest the 
old people faced out into the cold and darkness 
and gathering storm. 

It was a ten mile drive, over mountain roads, 
rough and perilous even by day. The sorrel was 
old; the chaise had taken Dick to his christening 
thirty years ago. The wind swept in angry gusts 
through the gorges; the icy nip of winter was 
in the mountain air; the “run,” swollen by the 
late autumn rains, foamed in threatening fury at 
the ford. But cold, darkness, pain and weakness 
and old age were forgotten. They were going to 
their dying boy — the boy who had been the joy 
and pride and blessing of their lives, as Aunt 
Betty’s mother-heart confessed to-night, in spite 
of poor little Mandy and her idol worshiping! 

What a bouncing baby he had been — twelve 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


39 


pounds from the very start ! What a sturdy, rosy 
youngster, toddling day and night at her heels! 
What a brave, bold, honest lad ! What a man ! 
Folks were talking of sending him to Congress 
even now — what a strong, true, noble man ! 

Poor Aunt Betty, cloaked and muffled in a way 
that precluded all conversation, was “thinking 
things over,” indeed, to-night, and Uncle Si, with 
his dim eyes strained in the darkness to keep the 
road, was startled by a sob that pierced his tender, 
old heart. 

“Thar, thar, don't, mother,” he said huskily; 
“don't give up like this. Keep up, old woman, 
keep up; like ez not Mandy's gone off in a skeer 
because Dick's got cramp colic. Gals dead in love 
like she is with Dick hevn't no sense to speak of.” 

And as the old arm stole around her to draw 
the big bearskin Uncle Si had taken from its 
wearer on this very mountain ridge, as the old ten- 
der tones sounded soothingly in his ear, the forty 
years that lay between seemed to vanish, and Aunt 
Betty was once more driving through the darkness 
with the sweetheart of long ago at her side. 

“ We're a getting thar now, mother,” he con- 
tinued, cheerily. “ That's the light of Bose farm 
shining through the cedars — ” 


40 


THE TOMKYNS' TELEPHONE 


“ They’re a singing,” cried poor Aunt Betty, 
clutching his arm despairingly, “singing hymns, 
father ! Oh, my boy’s gone ! I feel he is 
gone — ” 

“ No, no, mother — hold up — that ain’t no 
psalm singing,” said Uncle Si, giving the sorrel 
a flip that sent the chaise down the well-kept road 
to the farmhouse with a rattle and clatter that 
made the music suddenly cease. The door flew 
open; a pretty, fair-haired girl peered doubtfully 
from the fire-lit room, and beside her, sturdy and 
healthy and open-eyed with amazement now was: 

“Dick!” cried Uncle Si and Aunt Betty in 
one joyful, unbelieving breath. 

“ Father ! Mother ! ” cried the young man, 
springing out to meet them. “ On a night like 
this ! Good heavens, what brought you out — ” 

“The telly phone,” answered Uncle Si, in a 
sudden fury, as he felt mother suddenly collapse 
weakly in his encircling arm. “That” — with 
half a dozen pardonable expletives — “lying telly- 
phone. It went a ringing through the house ez 
if it was ready to bust, and called to me clar 
and plain, ‘ Father ! Dick is dying and you must 
come to him/ Here, help your mother out, lad. 
She’s all broke up. Got out of her sick-bed to 


Mary t. waggaman 


4i 


take this all-fired fool trip that’s likely to be the 
death of her. Just let me get home once more, 
and if I don’t bust that consarned tellyphone in 
earnest for this night’s work my name ain’t Silas 
Tomkyns.” 

“But I — don’t understand,” said Dick, when 
mother, trembling, tearful, and altogether sub- 
dued by her late experience, was sipping a com- 
forting cup of tea, ensconced in the softest chair 
in the pretty sitting-room. 

“ Oh, Dick, dear, I do,” said his little wife, as 
she put the hot water b^g she had just filled to 
Aunt Betty’s cushioned feet. “ Poor Mick Flan- 
nery, who has been sick so long, was taken very 
bad to-night. His wife ran in here for brandy 
and camphor — she was half-distracted, poor thing, 
and flew to Squire Jones to telephone for the 
priest — Father Marr.” 

“ I see, I see. He is on father’s wire. You’ve 
struck it, little girl — Mick sounds like Dick over 
a telephone, of course. But,” and he leaned in 
the old, boyish fashion over the back of his 
mother’s chair and slipped his arm about her neck, 
“ though I am sorry for poor Mick, I can’t quarrel 
with the telephone, mother, since it brought you 
back to us. She can’t go home to-night, Mandy. 


42 


THE TOMKYNS * TELEPHONE 


So take her up to your room and put her to 
bed. My little woman is a born nurse, mother, 
as you will find out for yourself.” 

Aunt Betty found out this and many other 
things during the three days she was the prisoner 
of Mandy’s love and care. The soft, low voice, 
the tender touch of the delicate fingers, the warmth 
of the loving young heart won triumphant victory. 

“I wish Dick and Mandy were nearer,” said 
Aunt Betty, as she and Uncle Si drove home 
through the glad sunlight of an Indian summer 
day. “ Country ways come awkward to pretty 
city gals, and she ain’t overstrong, and wants 
some one to mother her. But Dick says he’ll have 
a telephone put in, so it will sort of draw us to- 
gether.” 

And, in time, another tie, stronger than the 
wonderful electric bond, drew the two homes to- 
gether. Three or four times a day the Tomkyns’ 
telephone rings imperative calls, ,and “ mother” 
responds with smiling face. 

“ Hallo ! ” comes a small voice that makes new 
music in the silent old nest, “ dis is little Dick; 
dat you, grandmuzzer ? ” 


Miss Hetty’s Tramp 

BY MARY E. MANNIX 

Miss Hetty Bonsall lived alone in the house 
that had belonged to her forefathers for genera- 
tions. Not quite alone, either, for she had one 
servant, Nora, who had been in the family since 
before Miss Hetty was born, and who remained 
with her, faithful and capable, when the last of 
her kindred were laid beneath the sod. 

Miss Hetty had never married, but she was not 
at all a blighted flower. Quiet, reserved, gentle, 
and refined, as it was in her blood to be, she had 
mingled more or less with her friends and neigh- 
bors, until the great event happened in her 
life which made things different. Not suddenly, 
sharply, or cruelly so, yet decidedly and unmis- 
takably different. Miss Hetty had become a 
Catholic. The only Catholics in Mapleton were 
servants, laborers, and factory hands, and when 
“ it ” happened, people shook their heads, and 
touched their foreheads oracularly, but sadly — 
needing no spoken word to express the thought 
43 


44 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


that was in them. As time passed, and Miss Hetty 
— save in this one particular — continued to be 
exactly her old self and the scarcely breathed 
theory as to her sanity fell to pieces, her neighbors, 
still at a loss to account for her strange idiosyn- 
crasy, endeavored to resume their old cordiality. 
But things were changed, and their mutual rela- 
tions were never quite the same again. 

But if Miss Hetty noticed it — and she must 
have done so — she never made a sign. Her re- 
ligion was so comforting and consoling that it 
made up for everything. 

Her conversion had come about in a peculiar 
way. One evening as she sat watching Nora peel- 
ing apples for pies, she asked: 

“ Nora, how is it that you have always been a 
Catholic ? ” 

“ I was born one. Miss Hetty .” 

“ Nobody is ever lorn into a religion, Nora.” 

“ Well, my people were Catholics, and when she 
was dying mother made your mother promise 
to send me to the Sisters’ Orphan Asylum. But 
she hated to see me go to an asylum, and kept 
me herself instead. She felt it her duty to have 
me taught the religion of my parents, and sent 
me over to Four Rivers to Mass every Sunday, 


MARY E. MANNIX 


45 


besides having me instructed in my Catechism. 
She was a fine, good woman, Miss Hetty.” 

“ Indeed she was. And you have clung nobly 
to your faith, Nora. For a long time you were 
the only Catholic in Mapleton, weren’t you ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Hetty.” 

“ And now you have a nice church, and a good 
priest, haven’t you ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Hetty.” 

“Nora, I am going to tell you something. I 
have never before breathed it to a living soul. 
You remember that year I went to the Conserva- 
tory at Boston?” 

“ Yes, I remember it well.” 

“ I met a young gentleman there whom — I liked 
— very much. He was studying music. He was 
a Catholic. When I discovered it I couldn’t — 
Well, I had a wrong idea of things then, and so 
it was ended.” 

“And that is why you never married, Miss 
Hetty?” 

“I think it is,” rejoined Miss Hetty, with a 
little sigh. “After a while I was not unhappy, 
but I could never see any one else whom I liked 
as well. Now you have my little secret. Some- 
thing in the appearance of your new priest sug- 


46 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


gests him. Do you think I might call, Nora?” 
They were simple souls, both — the servant as 
simple as the mistress. 

“ I think you might,” said Nora, and Miss Hetty 
did. 

Something had stirred the slumbering past in 
the spinsters heart. She did not know, she could 
not know, what had become of her youthful lover, 
but she found herself longing to learn something 
of the religion he had professed. The result was 
that the close of the year found her a Catholic. 
Nora declared that it was a reward for the kindly 
act of her conscientious mother. Miss Hetty 
rather leaned toward the same opinion, and Father 
Furlong said that God not seldom acted vicari- 
ously. 

If Miss Hetty had not had the consolation of 
religion to sustain her, it is doubtful if she could 
have borne her subsequent misfortune. In less 
than a year after her conversion she became blind. 
She could no longer sew, but she could knit; she 
could not read, but many times during the day 
the beads passed through her long, slim fingers, 
and no one ever heard her murmur. 

Deep down in her virgin heart Miss Hetty had 
always treasured the memory of that youthful 


MARY E. MANNIX 


47 


fancy, which, if it had not been peremptorily and 
somewhat rudely nipped in the bud, would later, 
in all probability, have died a natural death. 
There were various reasons why it should have 
been so. There had never been the slightest dec- 
laration of love on either side, not even so much 
as the pressure of a hand. But the timid admira- 
tion pictured in a certain pair of Irish eyes had 
more than once brought a faint blush to the girlish 
cheek, and though the terrible discovery, made 
one Sunday morning on her way from the Congre- 
gational church, had caused her, as she thought it 
her bounden duty, to crush the sweet blossom of 
love beneath the heel of renunciation, she had 
never actually known those agonies which are 
known in romance as the pangs of disappointed 
love. There is hardly a doubt that Miss Hetty 
was what is vulgarly, but expressively, called “ a 
born old maid.” Nevertheless, she had cherished 
a tender recollection, enjoying rather than suffer- 
ing a gentle sorrow so exquisitely fanciful that it 
was not in any sense allied to pain. She had had 
her one little hour, and it had set her apart, in her 
own imagination, for sweet remembrance that 
could hardly be called regret. 

Since she had been blind Miss Hetty always 


48 


MISS HETTY’S TRAMP 


sat on the piazza overlooking the side garden, 
where Nora could see her from the kitchen and 
attend to any of her needs. One morning as 
she sat thus, busily knitting, the fleecy clouds of 
gossamer wool dropping lightly and swiftly 
through her fingers, a shuffling step sounded on 
the gravel walk. 

“ Good morning, madam,” said a voice that 
had once been musical, and was still not unpleas- 
ant in its intonations; “is there any job that a 
man might do about here to earn his dinner ? ” 

“ What can you do ? ” replied Miss Hetty, let- 
ting her work drop into her lap, and glancing 
nervously about her, while a slight pink flush 
mounted to her cheeks. 

“ Do not be alarmed, madam,” continued the 
man, noticing her perturbation, and attributing it 
to the dread which many nervous women feel at 
the sight of an unknown wayfarer. 

“ I am not — alarmed,” faltered Miss Hetty, as 
her hands fluttered quickly above her work. “ I 
am blind.” 

“ Blind ? ” echoed the stranger in a sympathetic 
tone. “ What a pity ! ” 

Then Miss Hetty called to Nora, who was 


MARY E. MANNIX 


49 


broiling steak, the appetizing odor of which must 
have been grateful to a hungry man. 

“ Nora,” said Miss Hetty, when the old woman 
appeared, “ here is a — man, to whom I would like 
you to give a good, satisfying meal. He is anxious 
to do some work in return for it. Have we any- 
thing — is there — any odd job — Nora?” 

“ He might chop some kindling,” answered 
Nora. “But I can’t let my steak burn. Go to 
the kitchen steps, my good man,” she continued, 
“ and wait there till I dish up Miss Hetty’s din- 
ner.” 

But the tramp, for such he was in every line 
and furrow of his dissipated face and slouchy 
figure, had already taken off his cap and seated 
himself at Miss Hetty’s feet. Resting both hands 
on his knees, and leaning his curly grizzled head 
upon them, he looked long and earnestly at the 
faded, flower-like face, from which beamed forth 
the pure white soul within. And, as he gazed, his 
brows contracted in a frown, he compressed his 
loose, vacillating lips together, and his bleared, 
bloodshot eyes grew moist. He must have had 
an unusually tender heart for a tramp, for he 
shook his head compassionately once or twice, 
blinked his bleary eyes and rose to his feet. 


50 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


“I can weed a little just here while I wait,” 
he said. 

“ Do so,” replied Miss Hetty, who had resumed 
her knitting, and he fell to work. While he weeded 
he hummed snatches of tunes to himself, and 
again Miss Hetty’s hands fluttered nervously 
through the ice-wool shawl she was making, while 
her soft brown sightless eyes, beneath their half- 
closed lids, became suffused with retrospective 
tears. At dinner her manner was nervous and 
agitated; Nora could not understand it. 

“I do not think I shall take a nap to-day, 
Nora,” she said, when the meal was finished. “ I 
will just go back, with my work, to the piazza.” 

“Very well, miss,” said the faithful handmaid, 
leading her to her accustomed place; “but 
do you feel just yourself? You look feverish.” 

“There is nothing the matter, Nora,” replied 
Miss Hetty. “I prefer to sit here.” 

When Nora went back to her kitchen the tramp 
had finished his dinner. He sat, with one elbow 
on the table, surveying the comfortable room. 

“ That is Miss Bonsall ? ” he inquired. 

“Yes,” replied Nora; “Miss Hetty Bonsall.” 

“You and she occupy this large house alone?” 
he continued. 


MARY E. MANNIX 


51 


“We do/’ rejoined Nora, sharply; “but we’re 
not one bit afraid of tramps and thieves. We 
have a big dog that we let loose at night, and 
burglar alarms on all the doors and windows. 
And we have very good neighbors.” 

The man smiled. 

“ Yon needn’t fly up like that,” he said. 
“You’re a mighty fine cook, and I thank both 
you and your mistress for the good dinner I 
have just eaten. Do I look like a thief? ” 

“ No, you don’t,” replied Nora. “ But I’ll tell 
you what you do look like.” 

“What is that?” 

“A tramp and a ne’er-do-well, fallen from a 
good estate through drink and folly.” 

“ You have guessed rightly,” he replied. “ That 
is precisely what I am.” 

Then the kind heart of the Irishwoman melted. 

“ Is it too late to turn over a new leaf ? ” she 
asked, in a more gentle tone. 

The man’s lips worked nervously for a moment. 
“I am afraid it is,” he said; “at least, so I have 
long thought — until this morning. But — if I 
could be allowed to stay in a home like this — for 
a while at least, until I could prove myself— there 


52 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


might be a chance. I am handy — a sort of Jack- 
of-all-trades. I would make myself useful.” 

“We don’t need any one; we have a boy to 
come in once or twice a week,” began Nora. But 
Miss Hetty spoke from the piazza. 

“Let him stay, Nora. We will give him a 
chance. Tell him to stay.” 

“ You hear what she says ? ” said the old woman. 
“ God bless her kind heart. Now let us see what 
comes of it.” 

The man rose, stretched himself, and heaved a 
long, deep sigh that was almost a groan. Then he 
took his battered cap from the corner of the 
kitchen chair where he had hung it, and went back 
to his weeding. 

“ What is your name ? ” asked Miss Hetty from 
the piazza, after a while. 

“ Bartle — call me Bartle,” answered the new 
man-of-all-work, lifting his head from his task. 

Miss Hetty did not speak again. When the work 
was finished, and he turned to ask for further or- 
ders, the porch was vacant. She had groped her 
way upstairs and was lying on her bed. Her eyes 
were closed, but she was not asleep. There were 
tears on the lashes, tears that could not fall, 
precious pearls of remembrance born of that shad- 


MARY E. MANNIX 


53 


owy romance which had touched her life in its 
early spring, and which the voice of a stranger 
had vividly recalled, after more than thirty years. 
What was it she had feared ? She would not even 
acknowledge it to her own soul, yet she had feared 
it. But now the dread had passed, she was herself 
again. 

“ I was so glad, so glad,” she whispered, lying 
on her white bed, “to hear that his name was 
Bartle ; a name altogether unknown to me. I have 
never heard it before.” 

For three months the tramp worked faithfully, 
and Nora daily vaunted his praises. 

“ He knows his business and he keeps his place,” 
she said. “ He’s the quietest man, except for that 
way he has of humming to himself the queerest 
tunes. But Fm afraid he’ll break out some day.” 

“Let us hope he will not,” Miss Hetty would 
rejoin, “ and at any rate we shall not anticipate.” 

One day it came. Bartle had been lending a 
hand to some wood-cutters by Miss Hetty’s kind 
permission. When he came home that evening 
NoTa closed the door between the kitchen and the 
dining-room. 

“ You are drunk, Bartle,” she said. 

“I am, Nora,” he responded. 


54 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


“ Then out of this house you must go to-night. 
Miss Hetty has a mortal terror of a drunken man. 
You have been very ungrateful, Bartle.” 

“ Eight you are, Nora/ 5 he answered; “ right 
you are,” as his head fell limply against the wall. 

“ Miss Hetty,” Nora announced to her mistress, 
sitting at her supper, “Bartle is drunk. I have 
told him to go.” 

Miss Hetty’s eyes widened. She stood up. 
“Oh, yes, yes, Nora,” she exclaimed, “we can 
not have a drunken man about. It is too bad — we 
had such hopes of him. Call some of the neigh- 
bors to take him away.” 

“ He is able to go himself,” rejoined Nora; “he 
is quiet enough.” 

“Very well. Send him away. I have such a 
horror of a drunken man.” 

At that moment the organ-like tones of a won- 
derful bass voice came from the kitchen. It was 
singing the “ Drinking Song ” from the “ Hugue- 
nots.” Miss Hetty’s hands, resting lightly on the 
table in front of her, began to tremble. With an 
intentness that seemed to carry her out of herself 
she listened until the song was finished. Then 
she leaned back in her tall chair as though ex- 
hausted, and said in a strained, unnatural voice; 


MARY E. MANNIX 


55 


“ Do not send him away, Nora. Tell him to 
go to bed. We will give him another chance.” 

Mistress and man had very little intercourse. 
Bartle took his orders from Nora, as was natural 
under the peculiar circumstances of Miss Hetty’s 
affliction. But many and many a time he would 
pause in his work to cast a kindly, sympathetic 
glance, of which she was unconscious, on the cheer- 
ful, resigned and still lovely face of her to whom 
he owed food, shelter and encouragement. 

One day Miss Hetty and Nora had gone to 
spend the afternoon with a friend in the country. 
They had hired a carriage from the livery stable, 
and did not expect to return till late in the even- 
ing. 

The moon was flooding the piazza with light 
when they reached their own door. From the 
parlor came sounds of glorious music, played by 
a master hand. Half terrified, Nora made her 
mistress sit down. 

“ I’ll go and see who it is,” she said. 

“ No, no, stay here. I want to listen,” replied 
Miss Hetty, grasping the old woman’s hand tightly 
as she drew her down beside her. Waltz followed 
waltz, and rondo succeeded rondo. The mood of 
the player changed, and several selections from 


56 


MISS HETTY’S TRAMP 


Chopin and Schumann were rendered in the most 
exquisite manner. Then suddenly a magnificent 
voice poured out the rollicking tuneful notes of 
“ Nancy Lee,” and Nora sprang to her feet. 

“It’s Bartle,” she cried. “He’s drunk again, 
and this time he shall go.” 

“No,” answered Miss Hetty, clinging like a 
child to the old servant. “ No,” she sobbed, while 
tears coursed down her cheeks. “He must not 
go, he shall never go — now. Be patient with him, 
Nora — for my sake — but first help me upstairs. 
Then I am sure you can prevail upon him to go 
to bed.” 

Perplexed, half indignant, fearful that the mind 
of her dearly beloved mistress was about to 
give way, yet true to the lifelong tradition which 
had made obedience to her as willing as it was 
absolute, Nora obeyed. The next day Destiny 
cut with one sharp blow the tangled skein which 
Nora had felt she would need all her wits 
to unravel. Coming downstairs alone, Miss Hetty 
slipped and fell, receiving injuries from which she 
never recovered. For several days she lay uncon- 
scious. This state was succeeded by intermittent 
periods of suffering. A woman was installed in 


MARY E. MANNIX 


57 


Nora’s place, and she devoted herself to taking 
care of her mistress. 

One morning Miss Hetty asked : 

“ Is Bartle still here, Nora?” 

“ Yes, Miss Hetty, and doing fine. He’s taken 
the pledge from Father Furlong. He never told 
ns he was a Catholic, did he ? ” 

“ No, but I had thought for some time that 
he was.” 

“ I never dreamed of it. But he’s been to con- 
fession and holy communion for the first time in 
twenty years, he told me, and he’s promised to 
go regular.” 

“ I am very, very glad to hear that,” said Miss 
Hetty, and soon after seemed to fall asleep. One 
day, it was the one before the last, she asked 
for Bartle. Nora summoned him. He came softly 
into the room, and sat down beside the bed. 

“ I wanted to talk with you a little, Bartle,” 
she said, quite calmly. “ You know I can not 
get well.” 

“ So they tell me,” he answered, “ but I don’t 
want to believe it.” 

“ It is true, however,” she continued, in the 
same quiet tone ; “ and I wanted to tell you — be- 
fore I go, how pleased I was to hear that you 


58 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


were doing so well 'and had been to the Sacra- 
ments.” 

“ God helping me, I shall never drink another 
drop,” he said. 

“ Bartle, I have left you something in my 
will ; enough to enable you to take care of yourself 
in your old age. I have given it in trust to Father 
Furlong. You do not know why I have done 
this?” 

“No, I certainly do not.” 

“Because you remind me of some one I once 
knew. It is your voice, especially, that recalls this 
friend to my recollection. I did not think there 
could have been two voices in the world so much 
alike.” Bartle did not speak. 

“ That man, my friend,” she resumed with 
difficulty, “ I have long lost sight of ; he promised 
to make a great success. But should it have fallen 
out that he did not, whether through circum- 
stances, or violent temptation, or some inherent 
weakness, as is often the case, who knows but that 
something might not have happened, or will hap- 
pen, at the end, to retrieve it all ? ” 

“That were impossible,” said Bartle, bitterly. 

“Or at least to encourage him for the rest of 
his days to be a better man?” 


MARY E. MANNIX 


59 


“ At least a better man,” he repeated, sadly. 

“ That we two old-time friends might once 
again be friends — in heaven.” 

Bartle rose. 

“With God’s help, in heaven,” he exclaimed 
fervently. 

She stretched forth her worn, transparent 
hands. 

“ Good-by, J ohn Redmond — good-by — till 
heaven ! ” 

He clasped them in his own, while hot tears 
fell from his eyes upon the wasted fingers. 

“ Good-by, good-by,” he gasped, and rushed, 
sobbing from the room. Miss Hetty turned her 
face to the wall. She neither wept nor sobbed ; she 
had passed all that — her soul was at peace. Noth- 
ing mattered now but what was to come after. 

The next morning she said quite composedly 
to her faithful nurse : 

“ Nora, in the top drawer of my desk you will 
find a little ivory box. There is nothing in it but 
a withered rose. Lay it with me in my coffin. It 
was given me one day by the friend of whom I 
told you. I have always kept it. The one I gave 
him in exchange was never so treasured, I am 
sure,” she added with a wan little smile. “ Men 


GO 


MISS HETTY'S TRAMP 


do not cherish or remember things as women do. 
Yon hear what I am saying, Nora?” 

“ Oh, Miss Hetty, I am listening, and I will do 
your bidding.” 

Twenty-four hours later, when they had dressed 
her for the grave, Nora took the withered leaves 
from the ivory receptacle where they had lain 
so long, and hid them between the loosely folded 
hands of her dead mistress. As she was leaving 
the room she met Bartle crossing the hall. 

“ Do you think I might see her now,” he asked, 
reverently. 

“ Indeed you might,” was the reply ; “ she 
thought well of you, Bartle.” 

He went in and closed the door. A short, 
but fervent prayer beside the blossom-strewn bier, 
a long, long, wistful look at the gentle face, saintly 
and beautiful in the embrace of that death which 
is the peace of God. Then Bartle turned slowly 
away. As he left the spot, something dropped 
from his fingers into the flower-banked coffin. It 
was a withered rose. 


Bricks and Mortar 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

The high rocking chair — a country chair that 
looked out of place — tilted furiously to and fro, 
but it could not keep pace with its occupants fierce 
longing. 

She was a gaunt woman, long of bone, sinewy of 
muscle ; she gave one the impression of resembling 
«her father, whom one knew instinctively as a 
man who had wielded pitchfork and hay-rake in 
the open fields. Beauty was no more her por- 
tion than it is that of any woman of her kind, 
the kind that grapples early with the problem of 
how to exist, and the weariness of hard work. 
But her features were not unshapely, and her 
steady gray eyes were as kind as they were keen; 
natural intelligence and dignity were declared in 
the honest face on which sorrow had left its in- 
delible mark. 

Now the eyes were hungry, eager in expression; 
a fierce light burned in them not unsuggestive of 
a trapped creature. They gazed unseeing at the 
blank brick wall before the window, and the rock- 
61 


62 


BRICKS AND MORTAR 


ing chair rocked back and forth rapidly to the 
length of its panic-stirring rockers. 

A man came into the room, a man with stoop- 
ing shoulders and an air of defeat for which he 
seemed apologetic. The woman turned to meet 
him, arresting her rockers’ mad course mid-way 
back by the tips of her shoes pressed perpendicu- 
larly downward. 

“ No good?” she asked tersely as she met his 
depressed glance. 

He shook his head. 

“ What do they advertise for men used to 
the country for if they don’t want ’em ? ” she de- 
manded. “ Where’d they expect to find a man used 
to taking care of cows and horses if it wasn’t 
you?” 

“ They’d engaged some one with a reference, 
a city reference, before I got there,” he replied 
dispiritedly. “I guess they don’t any of ’em 
want a man with only his own reference as a 
farmer of his own farm, Denie.” 

The diminutive of her name had a pathetic 
ring, so obviously was it the sole remainder of 
her rosy-cheeked, free youth. 

“ If I’ve got to stay shut up a pris’ner in brick 
and mortar much longer, Ben, there won’t be 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


63 


enough of me left to lay in a bricked-up grave, 
such as we give folks in the graveyard at home — 
I don’t know what kind of graves they make 
in these city burying grounds ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ I’m dying, that’s what I am ! If I could once 
get back home I’d git rid of this fever that’s 
burning me. My eyes are afire lookin’ at that 
brick wall across there — just one great, hard, 
bleak, blank thing, not a dent in it; no cracks 
for pity, like a stone wall’s got; just smooth 
bricks and mortar ! And here I sit looking at it, 
not a leaf in sight ! And behind it there are two 
hundred girls or more, working away at machines, 
smelling oil in a hot room ! Not one of ’em with 
an idea of what clover smells like, I make no 
doubt, nor how it feels to have the wind blow 
down the hills in your face in the early morning ! 
Benjamin, I’m going crazy! If we hadn’t have 
mortgaged ! If we hadn’t a come away to town 
after we got sheriffed! If we hadn’t done any- 
thing we have done, when we didn’t git along! 
We could have worked somewhere for luckier 
folks than us, and anyway we’d have been in the 
country ! My eyes are burnt out of me with that 
brick wall, but I can’t moisten ’em with one tear. 
I just sit and look and look, and rock and rock, 


64 


BRICKS AND MORTAR 


till I wonder I don’t throw myself out that win- 
dow against that wall — I get to thinking I’d like 
to mark it with blood, so’s everybody’d know what 
it is. And then I’m sure I’m going crazy.” 

The man looked helplessly frightened. “ I 
guess you hadn’t ought to sit and brood, Denie,” 
he said; “it makes you think things. It’s some- 
thing that we’ve been able to pay the rent of these 
two rooms, and have enough to eat, so far.” 

“ So far — that’s it, Ben ! So far from home, 
and so far along! But nobody knows how much 
longer we can hold out,” retorted the woman. 
“We ain’t fit for city, and every week is likely 
to be the last we can pay for even this stifling! 
Ben, let’s set out and walk home ! We’d be walk- 
ing along country roads, and if we died on the 
way we’d be dying in the open ! But we wouldn’t 
die. Folks along the way would be good to us, 
and when we got home we’d find work and a 
corner to sleep in. We’d git home someway, 
Ben.” 

Her voice grew pleading, and the husband 
shuffled in distressed sense of responsibility to 
gainsay a woman’s visionary impracticability. 

“ We’d be beggars, Denie,” he said. “ I haven’t 
a cent to start away on, you know that ! ” 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


65 


“ And ain’t we beggars now, I’d like to know ? ” 
she demanded fiercely. “ I sit here begging that 
brick wall to have mercy on me till I feel as if 
I was praying to an idol of brick and mortar, 
and was a heathen in heathen lands! We’d be 
beggars to folks instead of to bricks and mortar, 
Ben, and to God and not to monsters made by 
men to eat up helpless women — like me outside 
that wall, and those girls behind it! Oh, Ben, 
take me away home again, or let me start for it, 
and not die here looking at that brick wall, when 
there’s sky and trees beyond.” 

She arose from her chair, and going over laid 
a trembling hand on the faded greenish sleeve 
of her husband’s shabby coat. He covered the 
work-worn hand with his own gnarly one, which 
shook at the appeal, and answered her with the 
patience that he extended to all things besides her 
whom he loved, the patience that held in it the 
explanation of why he had failed to wrest from 
adverse circumstances the success which men had 
won who had been less fortunate in their begin- 
nings than he. 

“ I wouldn’t dare to go off like that, Denie,” 
he said gently. “ It wouldn’t do to throw up 
the little we’re sure of, and go off like that. 


66 BRICKS AND MORTAR 

Wait a little while, Denie, and Fll get work 
in the country somewheres — wait just a little 
while longer, Denie, and stop brooding over that 
brick wall yonder/’ 

The woman turned away. Her cheeks were 
flushed, and suddenly she revealed the fact that 
she was far younger than she had appeared at a 
glance. 

“ I’ve got a long, narrow box to put in the 
window in the other room,” she said in the tone 
of one who recognized the futility of further 
words; all the resonance had gone out of her 
voice, and she spoke with a dulness equal to her 
husband’s. “ I’m going to put in it those seeds 
I brought along from home. I want to try if 
the larkspur and portulacas and those things 
won’t grow — the sun comes in there afternoons.” 

“ So do,” said her husband heartily, “ they’ll 
blossom for you if anybody, Denie.” 

“ It’s about eight inches wide and twenty long ; 
not much like our front yard, Ben. But I’ve 
got to have some kind of a garden to keep the 
upper hand of that brick wall.” 

The woman turned away with a dreary smile as 
she spoke. The fire had faded from her eyes, the 
sudden color from her cheeks. She looked old; 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


67 


yes, skin, hair, even the monotony of her voice, 
seemed an unshaded gray. 

The weeks went by, and the two lives passing 
in the two small rooms on the lower floor of the 
city lodging house went by with them unevent- 
fully. Lonely and sad, hungering for her lost 
home, Denie Sebring gazed at the relentless wall 
that seemed to her worn nerves and discouraged 
heart the type of the city’s horizonless cruelty. 
And Ben Sebring performed the small tasks that 
came his way, contriving to keep the roof over 
their heads and a scant supply of food in the lar- 
der, pending the time that his answers to adver- 
tisements for experienced workers on farms 
should be crowned with success, and he could 
take his wife back to the fields for which she 
visibly pined. There was but one cheerful, pros- 
perous thing in the small home, but one bright 
spot in the tragedy of failure, and that was Denie’s 
window garden, her less than two feet substitute 
for her luxuriant front-yard and the vistas of her 
green-clad native hills. She had been famous 
among her neighbors for that touch of hand which 
makes everything grow upon which it falls, and, 
imprisoned among her hated brick and mortar, 
her hand had not lost its cunning. The little 


68 


BRICKS AND MORTAR 


brown seeds which she had brought away from 
Crestville had been gathered with a heavy heart 
that last autumn when she had known that her 
garden was a thing of the past, and the fore- 
closure of the mortgage and the sheriffs sale 
which stood to her as the brand of disgrace but 
a matter of days before it must be faced. These 
little seeds, buried in the narrow window box and 
watered with tears as abundantly as from the 
small jug which had been her cream jug in the 
farm days, had all sprouted, and the plants had 
grown just as their parent stocks had grown in 
the lost front yard. More slender, a paler green 
perhaps, they were, but growing, and budding, 
and now blossoming bravely in the window where 
the factory girls, passing to be daily immured 
behind Denie’s hated brick wall, could see them, 
and where other denizens of a most unblossoming 
quarter could feel their cheerfulness as they went 
by in the narrow way. More than mere blossoms 
they became to poor Denie ; a safeguard they were 
against the queer visions, the brooding melan- 
choly born of her loneliness and the corroding 
hunger for her old home — and for the fancies, 
bred, too, by the actual hunger of body, as well 
as heart, for there was sometimes extreme scarcity 


MARION AMES TAGGART 69 

of food in the closet. At home, however badly 
affairs went with them, there had always been 
more than enough to eat; as long as they held 
the farm it was sure to supply them abundantly, 
after some fashion. 

As the blue and pink larkspur blossoms opened, 
and the mignonette and portulacas sweetened and 
brightened the window garden, Denie watched 
them as a portent; if they did well, she told her- 
self, it meant that she too would do well, and 
to “ do well ” meant but one thing : To return 
to Crestville. But if her flowers withered away, 
if blossoms proved abortive, then it meant that the 
thin woman bending over them would also die 
in the miasma of city streets, crushed beneath the 
bricks and mortar encompassing her. 

The flowers thrived, thrived wonderfully, con- 
sidering how brief was their sunshine, how cir- 
cumscribed their plot. 

“ Queer how much you set by those flowers ! ” 
observed Ben one day, catching a glimpse of the 
fleeting triumph in his wife’s face as she straight- 
ened herself after a long and close inspection of 
new-forming buds. 

“ They’re all there is,” she said. 

One day a man unlike the general passer-by 


70 


BRICKS AND MORTAR 


went past Denie’s glorified window. Went by, but 
halted, turned, and retraced his steps to look more 
closely at the box filled with the old-fashioned 
flowers of everybody’s childhood garden. Denie 
did not see him, being engrossed in her sibylline 
pets, and he entered the general door of the house, 
and knocked at the Sebring’s particular door. 

Denie answered the summons. 

“ Good morning,” said the stranger. “ I came 
to see you about your window garden.” 

Denie looked amazed. 

“ It isn’t for sale,” she murmured. 

Her visitor smiled. 

“ So I should imagine,” he said; “it attracted 
my attention, being so entirely unexpected in this 
section. It reminded me of my mother’s garden 
in the country.” 

“ Yes,” said Denie with a sob in her throat, “ I 
brought the seeds with me when we left.” 

“ Ah, I thought you could not be city bred,” 
the visitor commented. Then he glanced at the 
tall, wasted figure, taking in comprehensively all 
its details and revelations. He was a man of sud- 
den impulses, of immense heart, and quick to read 
the symptoms of a tragedy. His acquaintances 
called him eccentric, a crank ; his friends and near- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 71 

6st of kin called him a saint — terms are largely a 
question of speaker and point of view; both these 
factions may have been right in the case of Rich- 
ard Dallas. 

“ Have you a husband and children ? ” 

“ A husband, and five dead children,” said 
Denie briefly. She looked into the stranger's eyes, 
near-sighted eyes as to landscape; far-sighted eyes 
as to souls. They compelled the reticent woman's 
confidence, as they compelled every one's. 

“ It's a story not much different from a good 
many people's,'' she said, “but I suppose every- 
body has to read their own story as if the words 
hadn't ever been used before. Ben — my husband's 
— as good a man as walks this earth, but he never 
has got along, and when things got too bad to 
help it we mortgaged our farm, and when we 
couldn't pay the interest we were sheriffed, and we 
moved to town because Ben would — I mean he 
had an idea he'd get on here. I suppose it was 
mostly Decause he couldn't ever get on there — as 
if the city was easier to make your way in, at our 
time of life ! '' 

“ And you're homesick,” the stranger finished. 

“I'm dying, inch by inch and day by day,” 


12 


BRICKS AND MORTAR 


Denie said. “ The brick and mortar is killing 
me.” 

She looked in her visitor’s face after she had 
uttered words that she had not intended to say, 
but there was nothing in his face to make her 
wish to recall them. With the rashness to which 
he was subject, the rashness of a knight errant 
born too late for the profession of defender of 
the weak, Richard Dallas made up his mind on 
the spot, and spoke it. 

“ I have bought a farm,” he said. “ I don’t 
know what to do with it; it came into my hands 
by way of trade, rather than in outright purchase. 
I need a farmer and his wife to go up there 
and look after it. If you and your husband will 
entertain the idea I should be glad to arrange with 
you to do this for me.” 

Denie began to tremble. 

“ It’s in the country ; a farm must be in the 
country,” she gasped. Then she added : “ There 
isn’t a better worker, a better farmer than Ben, 
if he’s working for some one else; he couldn’t 
manage for himself. And I do understand a 
dairy, and gardens — ” she broke off, shaking with 
eagerness. “ Where is your farm ? ” she asked 
with a feeble attempt to appear indifferent. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 73 

“ Up in Pocahontas* County, on the L. S. D. 
railroad; the name of the village is Crestville — 
My dear woman, what’s the matter ? ” Mr. Dallas 
interrupted himself to steady Denie, who began 
to sway as she stood. 

“ My home ! ” she whispered. “ What farm — ” 

“ It is called Laughing Brook, but most people 
up there seem to call it Sebring’s — ” 

The stranger in his turn stopped short, as he 
saw Denie’s face. “ It’s your old home ! ” he 
cried enlightened. “ You are Mrs. Sebring ! How 
fortunate I came here ! Of course you will run it 
for me — ■” 

But for the first time in her self-controlled life 
Denie had fainted dead away. 

When Ben came in later from another vain 
quest of country employment he stopped in his 
own doorway frightened by what he saw. There 
before her little window garden knelt Denie, sob- 
bing and kissing her blossoms in a frenzy of joy. 

“ We’re going home ! we’re going home, 
Ben ! ” she cried as she saw him. Then she crept 
on her knees across the floor and fell to hugging 
his shoes and crying over them. 

“ My flowers saved us from bricks and mortar ! ” 
she cried hysterically as he raised her with a be- 
wildered kiss. 









Chilly Con Carney 

(The Story of an Irish Bog that Moved.) 

BY P. G. SMYTH 

His surname was Carney, and his Christian 
name was Cornelius, shortened to Con, and he was 
the most unpopular man in that part of the coun- 
try, and he didn’t care who knew it. 

It was a local wit returned from America — a 
“ Yankee,” as they call that class of people — who 
first termed him Chilly Con Carney, and then 
he was sorry for having done so, not so much 
an Mr. Carney’s account as for the time and 
trouble he had to take in explaining. For his 
explanation was usually considered lame and im- 
potent and his sense of humor gravely defective. 
Glenree learned for the first time that chile con 
came was a popular Mexican dish, consisting of 
meat garnished with hot and peppery condiments. 
But how could anything be chilly and hot at the 
same time? Con Carney was chilly enough, to 
be sure, and cold blooded and miserly; but what 
has that got to do with hot Mexican dishes? It 
was a foolish joke entirely. Bah, moryah oma - 
dhaun ! 


75 


76 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


The punster, fresh from the States, fearfully 
and scathingly berated the obtuseness or as- 
sumed obtuseness of the natives of Glenree. He 
was drifting from despondency into melancholia, 
when to his rescue came an angel in the shape 
of an American tourist, whom, after some con- 
versation in the presence of a few of the obtuse 
ones, he directed to where he might obtain that 
pleasant New World viand, chile con came. 

“ Say, old man, that’s a mighty good local joke 
of yours,” said the tourist, when he came back, 
flushed and laughing nervously, from Mr. Car- 
ney’s house, “but it’s a kind of dangerous one. 
When I told him what I wanted, the old guy 
looked as if he’d eat me up; but when he told 
me his name I saw the josh I was up against. 
So that’s the kind of chile con came you have in 
these parts! It’s a prime joke, by thunder — 
ha, ha, ha ! ” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” echoed the group, their appre- 
ciation at length aroused. 

Thenceforth for a time it was hazardous for 
any American tourist, particularly one with a 
home hankering for chile con came , to visit Glen- 
ree; for it became not only a local joke but a 


P. G. SMYTH 


77 


local act of vengeance to direct him on that par- 
ticular quest to the dwelling of Con Carney, and 
then to witness the angry altercation and some- 
times even the personal encounter that ensued, 
when everybody hoped that the amazed and as- 
saulted “ Yankee ” would give the irate old land- 
grabber the trouncing of his life. For Chilly 
Con waxed hot and fiery under this unique form 
of boycotting, which the police were unable to 
stop and even the parish priest protested against 
in vain. 

“ Travelin’ gintlemin with a taste for that 
furrin food, chile con came — that’s the kind, 
long life to them ! that’s always welcome in Glen- 
ree,” was the prevailing local sentiment. 

Ambitious, persevering, unencumbered of scru- 
ple, Mr. Carney had a knack of getting anything 
upon which he had laid the eye of desire. The 
amalgamated farms which he held betokened 
this, the farms from which tenants had been 
evicted for non-payment of rack rents, and that 
he had taken in scornful and silent defiance of 
Land League and National League and United 
League, who variously boycotted, denounced, and 
burned him in effigy. He had long been a grim 
and retiring bachelor, keeping a cheerless and in- 


78 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


hospitable bachelor’s hall. But now a new and 
strange longing glowed in his rugged bosom. He 
wanted a wife to tend him and his home, and 
maybe help with the stock. She would have to 
be young and good and pretty, and she would 
need to have money — the more the better. With 
his usual judgment and tenacity of purpose, and 
adamantine confidence in himself, he started out 
to find a girl to suit his domestic program. And 
he had found her, and everything was arranged, 
to his satisfaction, at least, one fine Saturday 
night. 

That was the very night Charlie Tierney came 
to Glenree, his native place, on a vacation trip 
from the States. 

To catch his folks napping, to burst in upon 
them unexpectedly and enjoy their surprise and 
delight at his coming, that was his darling plan. 
And that was why, leaving his traps at the post- 
office, he slipped across the fields and slyly opened 
the back door of the ancestral cottage. A pleas- 
ant culinary aroma greeted him. 

“ God save all here ! My, what a smell of 
spices! Eh — a turkey, and a goose, and chickens 
galore, and beef and bacon, and Sibbie Hefferou 
making a currant loaf big enough to feed a com- 


P. Q. SMYTH 


79 


pany of the Black Militia! Come, now, this is 
too bad. I thought to take you by surprise, and 
somebody has given me clean away. Who told 
you I was coming home this evening ? ” 

“ Why, nobody told us, Charlie,” replied his 
mother, when the first warm greetings were over. 

“But why those preparations for a big ban- 
quet, then ? ” he asked, in affected chagrin ; “ I 
thought it was a fatted calf for myself, being 
the only son, prodigal or otherwise, in the family.” 

“ It’s not a fatted calf for a returning son, 
Charlie,” sadly said his sister Annie, who was 
busy ironing table linen; “it’s funeral baked 
meats for a departing daughter.” 

“ Lord save us ! ” exclaimed the young man 
tentatively, becoming suddenly conscious of an 
atmosphere of domestic depression. 

Then Sibbie Hefferon, the ancient retainer, 
impressively raised a robust arm covered with 
adhering dough and looking like a piece of 
sculptor’s work in the rough. 

“ Master Charlie, your father has turned his 
ould iron hand to matchmakin’, and he’s goin’ 
to make a marriage of a kind that was never 
made in heaven. Your brother-in-law is to be 
Chilly Con Carney.” 


80 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


The young man started in amazement and an- 
ger. 

“ What — that fishy-eyed miser, that yellow- 
fanged wolf down the river, that hypocritical, 
hatchet-faced, slab-sided incarnation of every- 
thing mean, a greedy landgrabber and gombeen 
man — or loan shark, as we call his kind in the 
States. In heaven’s name, Annie, my girl, what- 
ever tempted you to accept that parchment-cov- 
ered rascal, old enough to be your father, ay, or 
your grandfather? I thought my friend Fred 
Beamish, who owns the farm next ours, was — ” 

“ Your friend Fred Beamish was insulted and 
ordered out of this house a week ago because his 
holding is less than half as big as that of Chilly — 
of Mr. Carney, my destined husband,” said Annie 
bitterly, between her tears. “As for me, I have 
been, according to the ancient custom, the un- 
written law, allowed no voice at all in the trans- 
action. I am as a Circassian slave girl in the 
Turkish slave market — and the bargain has been 
made.” 

“ Don’t talk that way, avourneen,” pleaded her 
mother. 

“Ay, don’t talk that way, avourneen,” sarcas- 
tically echoed the privileged old servant * “ sure. 


P. G. SMYTH 


81 


there’s no use or sinse in your frettin’ yourself 
now, with everything ready for the weddin’. 
The piper is engaged, and the fiddlers. Father 
Pat is noticed for the marriage. All your far 
and near relations that aren’t gone to America 
will be here to-morrow, and big and hearty is 
the dinner we’re gettin’ ready for them. The 
Durkans are cornin’ from Ballysokeery, and the 
Gallaghers from Killala, and the Flanagans from 
Crossmolina, and we’ll have great doin’s entirely. 
Och, ’twill be a fine weddin’ — lots of kind and 
lovin’ friends to eat and dhrink and dance and 
wish you joy, and then off you go with that fluke- 
eyed ould — ” 

“ Don’t be discouraging her, Sibbie,” said Mrs. 
Tierney severely. “ Things are bad enough with- 
out making them worse.” 

“ ’Tis sorry I’d be to discourage her, ma’am,” 
replied the equivocal Sibbie. “ Many is the girl 
would like to be in Miss Annie’s shoes to-morrow, 
for Mr. Carney has money, and Mr. Carney has 
land — not sayin’ how he got it — and Mr. Carney 
is purty ould, and in coorse of nature, not wishin’ 
anybody any harm, Miss Annie ought to soon 
bury Mr. Carney. 

“ Sure, it’s a woman of my age he had a right 


82 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


to take,” she continued reflectively; “and if it 
was me, I’d very soon bury him!” 

Charlie Tierney had been doing some thinking 
and planning. “ When you don’t like this fel- 
low, Annie — and it would be unnatural if you 
did — why don’t you refuse to marry him? ” 

“You know very well, Charlie,” replied his 
sister, “that there would then be no living for 
me in the same house with my father.” 

“ Well, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t 
like. Just put down your foot, pack up your 
things, and come away with me to America, 
where those ancient, fossilized, mildewed ideas 
of matchmaking and parental power don’t go.” 

But Annie shook her head. She was an old- 
fashioned Irish country girl, with old-fashioned 
Irish country notions of filial obedience. The 
long inherited instinct of submission with re- 
gard to the selection of a life partner was strong 
within her, and, though her nature protested, it 
feared to revolt. She tried to console herself 
with the thought that matches made by the “ old 
people ” seldom proved unhappy. 

Besides, in marrying Mr. Carney, she would 
remain near her parents, for his holding, or com- 
bination of holdings, adjoined theirs further 


P. G. SMYTH 


83 


down the right bank of the river Glenree — the 
broad acres he had filched from the poor evicted, 
from widow and orphan. And above and adjoin- 
ing the Tierney farm lay that of Annie's lover, 
Fred Beamish — poor Fred, ruthlessly rejected, 
mournfully dejected. 

“ Break off this unnatural marriage, father, 
and save your daughter's happiness, maybe her 
life," pleaded Charlie Tierney that evening, im- 
petuously entering the room where his father sat 
smoking. 

Tierney senior was an aggressive looking little 
old man, gnarled yet hardy of body, gnarled yet 
strong of mind. He finished deliberately cutting 
his tobacco and filling and lighting his pipe 
before he replied to his son or even acknowledged 
his presence. 

“ Young man," he said severely, “your ould 
father knows his business, and the betther you 
attind to yours the betther you'll plaise me. Re- 
mimber that. I'm masther in this house. If 
you don't admire how I'm doin' things your ab- 
sence will be good company." 

“ But think, father," persisted Charlie, “ there 
are plenty of good, decent, respectable farmers 
over the countryside. Choose one of these for 


84 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


her, and not a sordid, soulless, detested old repro- 
bate like Chilly Con Carney.” 

“ Spake respectfully of your intinded brother- 
in-law, my high flyin’ young Yank, and don’t 
preshoom to tell me what to do or what not to 
do. The ould people made my match for vie; 
I only saw your mother an hour before 1 put the 
ring on her finger; it’s my turn to make matches 
now. Take care that I don’t make one for your- 
self and tie you up to some ould widow without 
a tooth in her head but with money galore — in 
the bank — and divil a divoorce you’d get, aither, 
for thim things may suit America, but not Ire- 
land, and not Glenree. Tell your foolish sister 
she may as well stop her tanthrums. The priest 
is notified, and the fiddler is hired, and the 
friends are bidden to the weddin’ from near and 
far, and I have here your sister’s fortune of three 
hundred goold sovereigns to hand over to Misther 
Carney, who, I am sure, will take good care of it.” 

"That’s what I’ll be very glad to do indeed,” 
said a croaking voice, and to Charlie’s surprise 
a tall, gaunt figure loomed out of the shadow of 
the window curtains and confronted him. The 
lamplight showed a cadaverous face with fishy 
eyes and fishy lips and bristly yellow whiskers, 


P. G. SMYTH 


85 


like a cat’s. It was old Chilly Con Carney him- 
self. 

“ Master Charlie/’ he said with oily suavity, 
“ a traveled man of the world like you ought 
to feel it an honor and an advantage to have 
a man like me marry into your family, a sub- 
stantial man, a man of affairs, with the best farm 
of land in Glenree. And now, good night.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Carney, have mercy on me — don’t 
drag to the altar an unwilling bride,” pleaded 
Annie, as she met her intended in the hall, 

“ My bonnie bride,” he said, “ you’ll get over 
that feeling. Drop your silly romancing! Right 
good husbands are few, and very soon you’ll find 
me one of the best of them.” 

So Chilly Con Carney, closing his ears and 
heart and conscience to the girl’s wail of despair, 
set complacently forth to his residence in the 
center of his broad, smooth acres. 

When he entered and turned up the lamp he 
found he had the house all to himself — his aged 
factotum, who had long helped him to keep bach- 
elor’s hall, having gone away for a Sunday visit. 
Seating himself before the fire Mr. Carney fell 
into a pleasant reverie, wherein floated the sweet 
face of Annie Tierney. Gentle Annie — finest girl 


86 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


in the land — splendid housekeeper — and after to- 
morrow she would be with him to stay ! And 
he dozed in his chair until the gray light of 
dawn came stealing in. 

Suddenly he became wide awake, alert and 
alarmed. Three black, glistening serpents had 
writhed in under the door and trailed their 
lengths across the entire floor. Several of the 
lower window panes cracked and fell inward, and 
cataracts of black, heavy, oozy stuff came burst- 
ing and thundering into the room. The fire 
hissed and went out. Dark, sticky matter rose 
around his ankles and climbed to his knees, and 
looking forth he saw what seemed a black, glisten- 
ing sea of tar, menacing and terrible! 

Great was the alarm and commotion that Sun- 
day morning along the banks of the Glenree. 
At first streak of dawn a shouting horseman gal- 
loped, like Paul Revere, from house to house, 
giving warning that the bog of Monamore, above 
the village, had again burst its trammels and was 
coming down the stream. From the threatened 
lowlands people hurried half dressed to the hill 
slopes, where groups stood watching the strange 
and appalling spectacle revealed by the light of 
day. 


P. G. SMYTH 


87 


It was like the upsetting of a huge cask of 
treacle. A dark moving mass choked the current 
of the Glenree, here clogging and clotting a 
bridge and there brimming over the banks into 
nooks and angles, defiling everything and every 
place it polluted with its black and viscid touch. 
And wherever Brother Bog came, he came to stay. 

Amid the awe caused by the solemn mourning 
badge of inundation a stalwart young farmer 
suddenly shouted in fierce delight and flung his 
hat high in the air. It was bad taste, some 
thought, but nobody blamed him: he was Fred 
Beamish, the lover of Annie Tierney. 

“ Hurroo, boys,” he cried, “ the bog has fallen 
in particular love with the holding of Chilly 
Con!” 

Sure enough a semi-liquid inky sea was slowly 
spreading over the flat and fertile fields of Mr. 
Carney, seizing foot by foot and perch by perch 
on the amalgamated holdings acquired by him 
through dint of rapacious land hunger. 

“ Ha, the grabbed farms have the widows’ 
curses,” exultingly yelled an old woman. “And 
there, begorra, goes the naygur himself.” 

Looking toward the Carney home they saw a 
wild, lanky being dart from the back door and 


88 


GHILLY CON CARNEY 


flounder into the encircling bog, making for the 
nearest rising ground. His legs, as he labori- 
ously waded along, were soon cloggy and shape- 
less with mud. Every few yards, in his haste 
and terror, he stumbled and fell, till he was soon 
caked, blackened and befouled from head to foot. 
It was like a dirty living log that at length drew 
itself out of the black sea and lay on the hillside, 
where Chilly Con, now chilly indeed, panted with 
fright and exhaustion. 

While startled and marveling groups still lined 
the green hillsides, and the Sunday morning 
bells began to ring, strings of side cars laden 
with smiling country folk in happy anticipation 
of pleasure began to arrive from various direc- 
tions and to pull up at the Tierney cottage. 
They were guests “ bidden ” to the wedding nup- 
tials of Miss Annie Tierney and Mr. Cornelius 
Carney, and grave grew their faces when they 
found Brother Bog in the role of Ancient 
Mariner. 

“ The match is broke off/’ declared that shrewd 
and practical man, Tierney senior. “ Seem* that 
now Mr. Carney has hardly as much land left 
as would sod a lark, it would be onraisonable for 


P. a. SMYTH 


89 


him to expect me to give him my daughter and 
her fortune.” 

"And, faith,” he added, in gratified after- 
thought, " it was rale lucky for me I didn’t hand 
him over them three hundred goold sovereigns 
last night, as I intended doin’. Very safe and 
fortunate, indeed! I must have got the prayer 
of some good ould woman.” 

"It wasn’t mine, then,” snapped Sibbie Heff- 
eron. 

" I said some good ould woman,” retorted Mr. 
Tierney. 

A look of joy and relief shone on the sweet 
face of Annie Tierney. The visiting women and 
girls flocked round her, few of them knowing 
whether better to condole with or congratulate 
her. 

As for her brother Charlie he busied himself 
actively among the male visitors, as alert as a 
worker at an American political convention. 
There were many whispered communings and ap- 
proving nods and smiles, and by and by a large 
deputation filed into the room where sat Mr. 
Tierney. 

"All of us are of one opinion, Mr. Tierney,” 
said a white-haired patriarch who acted as 


90 


CHILLY CON CARNEY 


spokesman, <( and that is that a fortunate thing 
has happened. You can ginerally trust a decent 
Irish bog to do the right thing, and that’s what 
the bog of Monamore done this blessed morning. 
It previnted what would surely be an unnatural 
and an unhappy marriage. What happened was 
for the best. Howsomever, being as we’re all 
here, friends, relatives, and well wishers, and a 
beautiful smell of cookin’ in the air, and the fid- 
dlers and pipers waitin’ out there in the kitchen, 
and Father Pat within aisy call, we don’t see 
why we can’t have a rousin’ good weddin’ afther 
all. Chilly Con is out of the question, the saints 
be praised, but there’s young Fred Beamish, a 
dacent father and mother’s child, able and willin’ 
and — ■” 

Mr. Tierney jumped up and protested. He 
was a hard and obstinate man, but he was taken 
at a grave disadvantage, and the ramparts of his 
objections and arguments crumbled away before 
the ardent assaults of the Durkans of Ballysokeery, 
and the Gallaghers of Killala, and the Flanagans 
of Crossmolina and other far and near connec- 
tions. After surrendering he genially opened 
and shared with them a jar of poteen — pure bar- 
ley poteen, the genuine native article — and he 


P. G. SMYTH 


91 


actually laughed as, glancing out the window, he 
saw his hopeful son frantically shaking hands with 
Fred Beamish. 

In that part of Ireland, when both the contract- 
ing parties are known to the pastor, matrimony 
— alas! a fast vanishing quantity in Ireland now- 
adays — is utterly free of trammels or red tape. 
No marriage license is necessary, and no publish- 
ing of banns. Therefore, an hour or so after old 
Tierney had given his consent, the exulting lovers 
drove to the parish chapel, where Father Pat met 
them and performed his sacred function. 

On their way back, accompanied by the long 
line of merrily crowded jaunting cars, they passed 
a tall man whom nobody recognized on account 
of his thick coating of bog mud. He might have 
been as spruce as any of them were he arrayed 
in his wedding outfit; but it lay under several 
feet of miry covering in a house far out in the 
recently formed black sea. Although he needed 
a suit, however, he had now no special desire for 
nuptial garments. A man made suddenly and 
strangely landless, his mind was deeply occupied 
with anything but matrimony. 


Widow Lavelle’s Lots 

BY P. G. SMYTH 

It was a rather gloomy and inappropriate place 
for such a bright and cheery little body to live in, 
that grimy manufacturing district of South Chi- 
cago, where smoke blackens the sky and cinders 
the earth, where coal dust encrusts the worn faces 
of the workers, and everything pathetically em- 
phasizes what seems to be the repulsive ugliness 
of the local form of human toil. 

Yet Mary Lavelle’s cottage and yard lay like 
a pleasant oasis in that darksome tract. Through 
the ubiquitous smudge her hollyhocks and morn- 
ing glories smiled like a healthy urchin with an 
unwashed face. The scarlet geraniums on her 
window sill glowed in bright relief against their 
background of snow-white curtains, lighting up 
like rubies the front of her humble domicile. The 
red brick cottage, which, since Lawrence Lavelle’s 
death, his widow occupied with her niece Nora, 
contained only a sitting room, bedroom and 
kitchen, each of them a model of neatness — al- 
though the only approach to decoration was made 
93 


94 WIDOW LAVELLE'S LOTS 

in the first-named apartment, where hung the con- 
ventional picture of St. Patrick -attired in gor- 
geous robes such as the famed apostle never wore, 
also one of Robert Emmet in brilliant and betas- 
seled military uniform such as never decked the 
form of that young patriot, and a large gilt-framed 
crayon portrait, enlarged from a photograph, of 
the late Mr. Lavelle, now many years deceased, 
but with his memory fondly cherished. It was a 
rather cramped but a very neat and pleasant in- 
terior. 

Neatest and pleasantest of all was the widow 
herself, in her crisp print gown and snowy apron, 
with hair almost as snowy. But she was nowise 
cramped, like her bijou surroundings. She was 
the jewel in the casket. Mary Lavelle had a great 
and generous heart, and she looked it. Her aged 
cheeks still wore the apple bloom, and her eyes 
beamed genially through her glittering glasses. 
In person she diffused a refreshing — one might 
even say a sacred — atmosphere of kindness, cleanli- 
ness and wholesomeness. She was a very lovable 
old lady. 

Mary was a steady worker, too — you could not 
call her a hard one, for, though the click of her 
sewing machine usually lasted from morn till 


P. a. SMYTH 


95 


night, she had so mastered the secret of work 
that she, and not it, was the master. Therefore 
lightly rested the golden crown of industry on her 
silvery hair. She was always able to meet her 
rent, pay her grocery and other bills, and the 
small fee for Nora’s education in the parochial 
school, and even to add, time after time, to the 
thousand dollars in the bank, which she had re- 
ceived, after her husband’s death, from the Catho- 
lic Order of Foresters. 

Much of her work was done through pure and 
practical charity. For instance, when that in- 
considerate or inexperienced young matron, the 
wife of Dan Connolly, presented her husband 
with their first offspring, a son, there did not 
happen to be a rag of baby clothing in the house. 
Widow Lavelle lifted her hands in horror. 

“ My goodness me, Julia Connolly,” she re- 
monstrated, “what in the world were you think- 
in’ of ! Did you expect him to come like a soldier, 
with a knapsack on his back, holdin’ his clothes 
and all his little belonging?” 

And she went forth and purchased sundry yards 
of cotton and flannel, and the music of her ever- 
ready machine ceased not until the pink atom had 
ample worldly raiment. 


96 WIDOW LAVELLE’8 LOTS 

Her good works extended in other directions. 
“ Bnd ” Crawley, although unamenable to the re- 
proof of the assistant pastor, would, when coming 
home drunk on Saturday night, go a long dis- 
tance out of his usual way to avoid meeting Mary 
Lavelle. One Saturday night, however, he did 
meet her, and — whatever was the nature of her 
gentle yet forceful appeal nobody ever learned — 
“Bud” went a far greater distance out of his 
usual way, and that was to go and take the pledge, 
and he kept it. 

These must suffice as specimens of the character 
and scope of the apple -cheeked little woman’s 
worthy deeds. Their number is known in heaven. 
“ Large was her bounty and her soul sincere.” 

Outside her bank account Widow Mary Lavelle 
was a woman of property, though she smiled sadly 
when reminded of it — and very few of the neigh- 
bors of late had the bad taste to remind her of 
it. The said “ property ” had long been regarded 
as a standing joke, but to refer to it now was 
considered an uncharitable reflection on the judg- 
ment, and therefore a slur on the memory, of 
the late Lawrence Lavelle. The property con- 
sisted of four black, barren, cinder-strewn lots, 
lying out amid a network of railroad tracks and 


P. a. SMYTH 


07 


unapproachable save at the risk of life and limb. 
When Larry Lavelle was induced by a prairie 
lot agent to buy them at prairie lot figures the 
place was almost a wilderness. But by and by the 
big factories sprang up, and poor Larry’s lots 
became gradually invested by the iron roads, until 
it became out of the question of building there. 
The railroads did not want them, and he knew 
not of any legal remedy. So there in dark desola- 
tion, sprinkled with cinders, swept by the sooty 
smoke of passing locomotives, the four lots had 
lain ever since, useless as the Sahara, avoided even 
by the sparrows, and all but forgotten by Mary 
Lavelle herself. 

“ What do you think, but Mrs. Lavelle is going 
to take a trip to Ireland,” was the rumor that 
passed one day round the neighborhood. 

She did not deny it. Yes, indeed, and she was 
going to take Nora with her, poor little Nora, who 
was so bright at the schooling. How glad the 
child would be of the long jaunt to New York, 
and then to see the great, blue ocean, and then, 
best of all, beyond it the grand, green hills of Ire- 
land! 

For a still, small voice within the old woman’s 
warm heart had grown by degrees pleading, 


98 


WIDOW LAVELLE’S LOTS 


urging, almost clamorous. It was the call of her 
native land, the appeal of the shamrock sod. The 
voice that called to her was of wind and water, 
of wind murmuring softly among fragrant haw- 
thorn boughs, of water like the lapping of wave- 
lets on the shingly shore of Lough Conn. And 
daily greater grew the longing to sit once more 
in the Irish sunshine on the mossy and ferny 
sward, where the hazel nuts grew on Annaghmore, 
and to look across the shimmering bosom of the 
lake to where the lofty dome of Nephin rose in 
kingly purple, and the lonely ruin of Errew Abbey 
nestled beside the water. 

“ We will get there, Nora darlm’,” she said in 
ecstasy, “when the white is on the thorn and the 
gold is on the whins, and when the blue fairy thim- 
bles are peepin’ out under the hedges of the little 
potato gardens that slope down to the shore. ’Tis 
over thirty years since I saw the old place, but 
1 can see it this minute as clear as ever.” 

And she set diligently to work to prepare their 
outfit for the journey. 

A few of the neighbors who had come from Mrs. 
Lavelle’s part of the old country came with sundry 
messages for her to deliver to their friends or 
relative there, an(J individual message was 


P. O. SMYTH 


9 9 


a revelation in human nature and an index of 
the character of the sender. 

“ Kindly tell my sister Winny and her husband 
that we’re doin’ first rate, Mrs. Lavelle, and that 
we have full and plenty, and tell all the neigh- 
bors the same,” requested a woman who was strug- 
gling to raise her five children on her husband’s 
wages of $12 a week: with an inherent spirit of 
pride, dignity, and self-respect she abhorred the 
shame of being considered poor after having been 
so long in America. 

“ That brother of mine is rowlin’ in riches since 
he bought his farm under the Land Act — be sure 
and tell him, ma’am, that he might do worse 
with his money than send some of it out here, 
where it’s badly needed,” enjoined a woman whose 
home was paid for and who had money in bank. 

“All I’ll ask of you, Mrs. Lavelle,” said a 
young man, as he handed her a small gold watch 
to be taken as a present to his mother, “ is to 
bring me a pebble from the shore of the lake 
near our house.” 

“Dear, dear, I’ll never be able to remember 
half all these messages, though I’ll do my best 
to try. Kora alanna, before they make any more 


100 WIDOW LAVELLE’S LOTS 

of a postman out of me, I wish we were on the 
blue water.” 

But Widow Lavelle’s hopes of seeing Ireland 
were doomed to a black and bitter frost. 

It came one day when Nora ran in after school, 
panting, breathless, excited. 

“ Oh, auntie, auntie, there’s bad news, very bad 
news,” she cried in alarm. 

“ Calm yourself, darlin’ — and what’s the mat- 
ter?” 

"They’re saying that Frazer’s bank is failed.” 

Then Mary Lavelle’s face grew pale for the first 
time in years, her form drooped, her hands fell 
listlessly on her lap. The ill news that travels fast 
was soon confirmed, and its shadow lay chill and 
depressing in the little cottage interior. Neighbors 
came trooping in with condolences and suggestions. 
The widow heard them one and all with patient 
musing; then the glow leaped again into her 
cheeks, the light into her eyes, and defiant cheeri- 
ness into her manner. 

“ People dear,” she said, “ sure it’s the will of 
the good God, that does all for the best, and 
things were never so bad but they might be worse. 
Well, farewell, old Ireland, and here’s settlin’ down 


P. G. SMYTH 


101 


to work in you again, sweet and sooty South Chi- 
cago.” 

But when they went out she bolted the door, sat 
down, threw her apron over her head, and rocked 
to and fro before the stove, while Nora looked on 
silent and sorrowful. 

“ Nora, acushla,” said the widow at last, “ in 
money we have only about five dollars in the 
world. Hand me the bank-book out of the cup- 
board till I see what's lost. It must be near $1,600 
— an awful lot of money, aroon, to lose in one's 
old age, but welcome be the will of God.'' 

The child brought out the book and with it a 
parcel of time-stained documents which the widow 
recognized with a sigh. 

“ The deeds of the four lots among the rail- 
road tracks. My sorrow on them for good-for- 
nothing old lots! I wonder now,'' she mused, 
“ would they be worth anything at all, at all. Any- 
way sure there's no harm in tryin'.'' 

With Mary Lavelle action swiftly followed 
thought. Next day she took the deeds into the 
big city and submitted them to a leading real 
estate man, whose office was in a skyscraper near 
the Board of Trade. She felt rather ashamed in 
presenting them. 


102 WIDOW LAVELLE'S LOTS 

“ Sure, ’tis mighty little, if anything, I can ex- 
pect for them same lots,” she said. “ To tell you 
the truth, sir, you’ll have a hard time sellin’ them 
for me, for there’s no way of gettin’ to them except 
by a balloon. If you can get even $25 apiece for 
them, take it.” 

And she took her departure, he assuring her that 
he would do his best in her interests. 

Which Mr. Seebright promptly did, writing as 
follows to the lawyer who had charge of the real 
estate business of one of the railroad companies, 
whose line ran alongside the Lavelle lots : 

“ Dear Sir : I am instructed to dispose of four 
lots, most desirable for railroad purposes, imme- 
diately adjoining your company’s tracks in South 
Chicago. Enclosed plot, etc., will show their loca- 
tion, and the special importance and value they 
could be made to the railroad company. 

“ Our price for them would be $800 cash.” 

“ That’s a pretty good figure to start on in case 
it should come to a matter of dickering,” mused 
Mr. Seebright. “ Of course they’ll try, if they 
want to buy, to beat me down, with a final cheese- 
paring and splitting of differences. However, if 
they are worth anything at all to that bloated cor- 


P. Q. SMYTH 


103 


poration they must be worth a good deal more than 
the measly $100 the poor soul is willing to accept 
for them.” 

Next day the real estate man had a business 
visit from the railroad company’s lawyer, a suave 
and courteous gentleman, with a large stock of 
professional tact and diplomacy. 

“ Mr. Seebright,” said the caller, going straight 
to the point, “ 1 am sorry to say you are asking too 
much for those lots. We admit that we would much 
like to secure them, but you are asking several 
hundred dollars more than we are prepared to pay.” 

“ Several hundred dollars more ! ” repeated See- 
bright. “Why, my dear sir, do you want to get 
them for nothing ? ” 

“ Patience, patience, and consider our offer,” 
urged the lawyer. “We are not in pressing need 
of the lots, and we are willing to pay you a rea- 
sonable price for them. You ask $3,200 for the 
four; well, we will give you $2,700.” 

The real estate man momentarily started and 
stared, but immediately acquired control of him- 
self as a cool, alert, inscrutable business man. 

“ Well, I will consider your offer,” he said in 
seeming indifference. “ By the way, have you got 
with you my letter on the matter ? ” 


104 WIDOW LAVELLE'S LOTS 

The lawyer had it and passed it over, and on 
glancing at it Seebright was instantly alive to the 
situation. His letter had asked for “ $800 cash 
in the typewriting the word “ cash 99 was blurred 
so as to read “ each,” making the demand appear 
“ $800 each ” for Mrs. Lavelle’s four black, cinder- 
strewn, steel-encircled lots. 

“ So you consider the lots worth only $2,700?” 
nonchalantly inquired the wily Seebright. 

“That is our liberal valuation.” 

“ Well, I am not inclined for dickering, though 
$500 is a big bite out of a client’s price. You 
may consider the deal closed. The papers shall 
be ready to-morrow morning.” 

The company’s lawyer departed satisfied, and 
Mr. Seebright indulged in a wild and lurid war 
dance, leaped two chairs, vaulted the desk and 
spilled a bottle of ink on the carpet. 

Thrilling was Mary Lavelle’s amazement a day 
or two later, and fervent her chant of praise, 
when she received into her hands a check for 
$2,500, the price of her four lots minus the real 
estate agent’s commission. 

“ God never closes one door but He opens 
another,” she reverently quoted. “Now, Nora 
darlin’, it was just as well that we didn’t unpack 


P. G. SMYTH 


105 


our trunk, for we’re going to Ireland after all. 
In little over a week it’ll be you and me attendin’ 
Mass in the chapel of Rathduff and sittin’ on the 
warm grass under the blue sky in Annaghmore.” 

And large was the gathering that saw them off 
at the station and shouted them Godspeed as the 
train pulled out from the grimy precincts of South 
Chicago. 






The Rokeby Ghost 

MARY T. WAGGAMAN 

"Simply perfect, Bess,” said Miss Lawrence, 
sinking down in the depths of a great easy chair 
after a tour of her friend’s country house. "I 
don’t wonder you and Dick seized upon it at once 
— rats, bats, ghost and all.” 

"We’ve driven off the rats and bats,” laughed 
the little hostess, as she poured a welcome cup of 
tea, "and as for the ghost, we don’t talk or think 
about him.” 

"Why not ? ” asked Miss Lawrence, lightly. "An 
old-fashioned ghost is a delightful addition to an 
establishment in these prosaic days. I should make 
every effort to retain the ghost, Bess. It is so patri- 
cian.” 

"Of course some of us believe in such things,” 
said little Mrs. Winters, dropping another lump of 
sugar in her friend’s cup. "Still there are al- 
ways so many stories about an old house like this. 
The Rokebys came over with Lord Baltimore, you 

know, and the family have owned the place ever 
107 


108 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


since. And it was entailed in the old English fash- 
ion, so they couldn’t sell. And Jack Eokeby — you 
know him, Nell.” 

“Yes,” answered Miss Lawrence, briefly, a deli- 
cate flush rising to her cheek. 

“Well, he has nothing left to speak of, except 
that old place — with an invalid mother and two 
sisters on his hands, and he was glad to let us have 
it at a rent I am almost ashamed to tell. The 
doctor said Dick ought to live an outdoor life for 
a year or two after his spell of typhoid. So when 
we came back from our honeymoon in Florida, 
Dick brought me down to see the place and I lost 
my heart at once.” 

“I don’t wonder,” said Miss Lawrence, looking 
up at the old colonial mantel, upheld by carved pil- 
lars bearing the Kokeby crest. “It is just the 
place for lovers to live and dream.” 

“I suppose it is,” was the response, “only Dick 
and I are not the dreaming sort. To us it seemed 
just the place for house parties, and hunting part- 
ies, and all sorts of jollifications. Twenty rooms 
at least, my dear, with no one knows how many 
more walled up.” 

“Walled up!” exclaimed Miss Lawrence, open- 
ing her violet eyes in wide amaze. 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


109 


“Yes, Jack told us there were one or two rooms 
sealed up. One is the old Romish chapel. It 
seems that the Rokebys were an old Catholic family 
in England. Dated back to the Crusades. All 
sorts ,of dreadful things happened to them in 
the times of persecution ; they lost their home and 
their fortune and several of them their heads for 
their faith, and finally they came over here with 
the Calverts, who gave them a grant of this Manor. 
And they had their own chapel — and — Mass — don’t 
you call it? — and a priest here — even when they 
had to hide him to save his neck. And so when, 
about seventy years ago, the son and heir of the 
house gave up his faith while abroad at a German 
university, and married a Protestant wife, it cre- 
ated excitement as you may guess.” 

“Naturally,” said Miss Lawrence, warmly; “I 
am a Catholic myself, you know, Bess, and can 
understand what apostasy means to such a race of 
martyrs and saints.” 

“They say it broke his mother’s heart. She is 
the lady in the Empire gown, whose portrait you 
saw downstairs. But the old father was of sterner 
stuff — he tried to disinherit his son, but the en- 
tail still held in those days, and he could not pre- 
vent Rokeby Manor from falling into his heir’s 


110 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


hands. So he had the chapel, which had been a 
holy place for so long, walled up that it might not 
be profaned or dishonored. And where he left 
his money no one knew. His son concluded it 
must have been given away in secret charity, for 
the old gentleman got strange and moody at the 
last and lived and died here alone with the ex- 
ception of a few trusty slaves. It is his ghost 
that is supposed to walk — and really I don’t won- 
der. The Rokeby fortunes are going down in a 
way to rouse any right-minded ancestor. As Jack 
told Dick, things have touched bottom rock with 
him. He is too poor to marry for love, and too 
proud to marry for money, so he is likely to prove 
the last of the Rokeby name and line. But good- 
ness gracious ! here I am chattering away, f orget- 
ting my Nesselrode pudding that Chloe can never 
manage alone. We dine at seven, Nell. Look your 
prettiest; Dick has half a dozen fine fellows down 
for the duck-shooting all ready to fall victims to 
your charms.” 

And the pretty little housewife of a year flitted 
away, leaving her guest to think over the light, 
careless words with a pain stirring in her heart 
that those who knew Helen Lawrence best would 
pever have guessed, 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


111 


But Miss Lawrence was a woman of the world, 
and women of the world often walk its glittering 
ways with hearts as veiled and silent as those of 
the cloister, hearts that break and die and make 
no sign. 

When she floated into the dining-room that 
night, a radiant vision in filmy white, the violets 
that followed this reigning belle everywhere 
blooming on her breast, her snowy throat banded 
with pearls, the six bold hunters succumbed with- 
out a struggle. 

All evening she held gay court in the great 
Manor Hall, where huge hickory logs blazing and 
crackling in the big chimney place showed the old 
Crusader’s shield of the Rokebys, with its cross and 
sword and proud motto, “Dieu et mon droit” 

All evening, as she laughed and jested, the grave, 
tender eyes of the pictured Rokebys on the wains- 
coted walls seemed to rest upon her. Despite 
the love locks and doublets, the eyes seemed to 
pierce her heart with unforgotten pain. 

Hot six months ago eyes just like these had 
looked into hers with a hopeless love the lips had 
been too proud to speak. For Miss Lawrence was 
heiress as well as beauty and Jack Rokeby was 


112 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


bound by strong fetters of duty, the last of his 
ruined race. 

It was with a sigh of relief that she entered 
her own room that night, glad to drop her glitter- 
ing mask and be at rest. 

“You can go, Margaret,” she said to the maid 
who was awaiting her; “I will not need you to- 
night.” 

“Let me stay with you, miss,” said the girl. 
“It’s such a strange, lonely place, and the house- 
maid has been telling me how the rooms over here 
are haunted. I don’t like leaving you alone.” 

“ Nonsense,” said the young lady. “ I thought 
you had more sense than to listen to such foolish- 
ness, Margaret. There are no such things as 
ghosts, as you have been taught and ought to 
know.” 

“They were saying this was the worst room 
of all,” continued the girl, uneasily. 

“Mrs. Eokeby, the old lady, was fairly driven 
out of it with the moanings and the rappings. 
And the candles are flaring, as you can see, miss, 
-without a breath blowing on them. The maids 
were telling me they always flare and flicker in 
here, and there’s a cold draught, like that from 
an open vault, even on a summer night. It is the 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


113 


room where the old Squire died, him that put the 
ban on the place. They say you can hear his cane 
tap, tapping, just as when he walked in life, miss.” 

“How perfectly silly!” laughed the young lady. 
“I am not in the least afraid of the old Squire or 
his cane, and I prefer to be alone. Put another 
log on the fire, Margaret, and go to bed.” 

And as the girl reluctantly obeyed Miss Law- 
rence locked and bolted her chamber door and 
flung herself in the great easy chair before the 
hearth to dream hopeless dreams. 

This old house had put a spell upon her she 
had never felt before. Though scores of princely 
mansions had been open to her queendom, none 
had charmed her like this. It seemed to call her, 
to hold her, to claim her for its own — the old ivy- 
veiled walls closing around her seemed to take her 
to the heart of things. 

And how she could lift its shadow, how she 
could brighten and bless it, how sweet it would be 
to unseal its closed sanctuary, and let the light of 
faith shine out once more from its hallowed walls ! 

But this could never be, she felt, with a hope- 
less pang. Stronger even than the love she had 
read in its master’s earnest eyes was his pride. 

“You will come to see me in town next winter?” 


114 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


she had asked when they had parted last spring at 
the friend’s where they had met at an Easter house 
party. 

"No,” he had answered, and she had almost 
winced at the despairing clasp that had wrung her 
little hand. “I — I dare not — it would be mad- 
ness. This is good-by.” 

Good-by! The wind had sounded like a knell 
in her ear — the death knell of a sweet, womanly 
hope. It seemed echoing through his old home to- 
night in tender, sorrowful plaint. The old home 
in which she could only poise like a brilliant 
winged bird, and where she must not rest. “Good- 
by ! ” She leaned back in the soft, cushioned chair 
and let the tears that had gathered in her violet eyes 
fall freely, tears that she had held back all even- 
ing, and that even her faithful Margaret must not 
see. And as she sat there, abandoned to her grief, 
a cold breath swept over her that made her start. 
It was like the touch of an icy hand. The lace 
ruffles on the toilet table stirred, the candle 
flickered, flared, and went out. And tap, tap, 
in the sudden darkness, came the sound of a 
ghostly cane. 

The dreamer sprang to her feet, her blood for the 
moment chilled. But it was heroic blood. Helen 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


115 


Lawrence had been trained to wisdom and courage 
beyond her years. 

She held back the cry of alarm that she felt 
would only add to the shadow on the old house, 
and to its master’s embarrassments. The ruddy 
light from the leaping fire emboldened her to 
pause and reason. The sudden draught must come 
from some opening, a door or window which she 
had overlooked. She re-lit the candle with steady 
hand, and holding it high above her head, began 
her search. 

The two windows were closed, the door bolted 
and locked securely, the oak panelled walls seem- 
ingly intact. But the shadow of the high-cur- 
tained bed fell heavily in one corner, and as the 
girl neared it the ghostly draught swept icily upon 
her, heavy with earthy damp. 

Tap, tap, tap, came the chilling sound, and the 
flaring light of the candle fell upon a figure — the 
dim, shadowy figure of an old, white-haired man 
leaning on a cane. In a sudden madness of terror, 
she flung the silver candlestick she held at the 
grisly presence. There was a crash, a shock of 
blinding pain, and all was blank. 


116 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


“ Nell, Nell, oh, Nell darling,” little Mrs. Win- 
ter’s voice was the first sound that reached her 
guest. “ Oh, thank God; she is opening her eyes 
at last ! Do you know me, Nell ?” 

“ Bess, dear, yes ; what — what has happened ? ” 
Miss Lawrence lifted a hand that seemed strangely 
heavy to her bandaged brow. 

“Oh, don’t — don’t talk, dear, please. The doctor 
said you must keep very quiet,” said the little 
lady, hysterically. “You’re safe again, quite safe, 
Nell. Oh, we’ve all been wild about you for the 
last six hours. To think of my putting you in 
that dreadful room. Oh, don’t, don’t think about 
it, dear.” 

“The room!” repeated the sick girl, her eyes 
widening with remembered horror; “the dreadful 
room — the draught — the tap — oh, Bess, what — 
what was it ? Are there, indeed, ghosts — that — that 
cannot rest ?” 

“Oh, no, dear, no! Don’t look like that, Nell, 
there was no ghost at all, dear ; there never has 
been. It was only the picture of old Martin 
Bokeby that fell on you, Nell, when you were 
bravely looking around, I suppose, for the strange 
sound. It seems that there was a door behind it of 
which no one knew. A door whose rusty fasten- 


MARY T . WAOGAMAN 


117 


ings had given away, and that sometimes blew open 
a little, swinging to and fro against the picture, 
making the strange tap, tap, like an old man’s 
cane. The door opened into the old chapel, and, oh, 
such things as we found hidden there; gold and 
jewels and family plate — all old Martin Rokeby’s 
vanished wealth. "VVe sent for Jack at once, but 
the poor fellow has not given a thought to his 
treasures, he has been so distracted about you. 
Gave himself dead away before everybody. He is 
madly in love, as we all can see. Now you must 
go to sleep — or Fll be simply tom to pieces for 
talking so much to you, Nell. Your face is flush- 
ing up with fever now — do shut your eyes and go 
to sleep, please.” 

And though the little hostess’ methods would 
doubtless have been criticised by a scientific 
nurse, they proved eminently successful. In spite 
of the talking, Miss Lawrence began to improve 
with astonishing rapidity from that moment. 
Within a week she was downstairs, with her soft 
hair rippling on the bruise on her temple, and the 
gentle languor of convalescence only adding to her 
charms. 

Mrs. Winter’s other guests had discreetly van- 
ished — only the master of Rokeby remained to 


118 


THE ROKEBY GHOST 


watch the red flush deepening on Miss Lawrence’s 
cheek, the starry light brightening in her beauti- 
ful eyes. Seated in the carved arm chair before 
the great log fire in the Manor hall she seemed 
like some fair spirit sent to redeem the fallen for- 
tunes of the race, for the hidden treasure her 
courage and daring had revealed brought the 
Eokebys independence, if not affluence, once more. 

"It was a strange freak of my great-grand- 
father,” said the young heir of the house this even- 
ing as he sat at her side. "We always understood 
that the old gentleman grew very eccentric at the 
close of his life. The break with his son preyed 
upon his mind. After his death my grandfather 
never cared for the place ; he spent most of his life 
abroad, and the grounds were worked by tenant 
farmers. The house has been little but a burden 
for years — a burden we could ill afford.” 

" But now surely the old roof tree calls to you ? ” 
Miss Lawrence said gently. "Surely you will 
come back ? ” 

"That is for you to say,” was the eager, impas- 
sioned answer. "Helen, beloved, I dare speak at 
last. Your touch has unsealed my lips. My home, 
my life, my heart are yours. Will you kindle the 


MARY T. WAGOAMAN 


119 


fireside flame, the altar light, or leave them dark 
and desolate forever ? ” 

And in the starry beam of the beautiful eyes up- 
lifted to his he read his answer. 

***** 

So it happened that there was a Christmas wed' 
ding in the old Rokeby chapel, for the fair bride 
thus willed. The sturdy walls had withstood the 
years bravely; mould and dust were soon cleared 
away — altar and sanctuary revealed again in all 
their beauty. 

The portrait of old Martin Rokeby, lifted again 
to a place of honor on the walls, seemed to smile in 
pale triumph, as, amid lights and flowers and 
bursts of glad music, the solemn voice of the old 
Mother arose once more within the hallowed walls, 
blessing the children and the children’s children 
of the young pair whose love had unsealed the 
closed sanctuary and banished the Rokeby ghost 
forever. 











When the Dumb Speak 

MARION AMES TAGGART 

Ten years ago the railroad had not come from 
Yarmouth to the Acadian settlement thirty miles 
below, down the coast toward Cape Sable. It 
was reached by stage coach along a road revealing 
glimpses of the ocean as it makes up into Argyle 
Bay, studded by any number of pretty little pine- 
clad islands. Two years after the English had 
scattered the Acadians from Grand Pre, Pomcoup 
was served in like manner. But the people found 
their way back to the sterile coast which had 
been home, or a handful of them did, and began 
anew to clear lands and found another Pomcoup 
over on the west side of their little bay, across 
from the original settlement, then occupied by 
the English. From this handful of loyal exiles 
has descended the entire population of the fishing 
hamlet which they founded, still living much the 
same sort of simple, communal life as that de- 
scribed by Longfellow in " Evangeline.” 

All down the long road to the point stand little 

frame-houses, similar in their shining neatness 
121 


122 


WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 


of kalsomined uniformity. The only pretentious 
building in the place is the church, overlooking 
its flock on a slight eminence, flanked by great 
pines that screen the burying-ground from the 
fury of the winter winds. 

Monime Le Blanc stood looking out of the 
door of her particular frame-house. She was 
a pretty girl, after the Pomcoup style, low-browed, 
brown-eyed, perfect oval of contour, with a 
straight, delicately cut nose, full, soft lips, and 
a skin faultless in the tinting given it by the 
thick fogs that constantly roll in from below the 
point, shrouding the seven mile peninsula in an 
impenetrable veil of stinging moisture. 

Monime’s penciled brows were drawn into a 
decided frown, and her expression was anything 
but cheerful. Behind her crept up another girl, 
almost as pretty as she, but with a singularly 
childlike expression of bright alertness about her 
eyes, and an eagerness that suggested pathos. 
She laid her hands on Monime’s shoulder, peer- 
ing anxiously over them as she did so, and Mon- 
ime started with a violence betraying how com- 
plete had been her abstraction. 

“ Oh, D6idamie ! ” she exclaimed, petulantly. 

With a swift motion of her hands the second 


MARION AMES T AGO ART 


123 


girl said in pantomime that her foster-sister was 
as deaf as she, not to have heard her coming. 
Monime understood, having been Deidame’s com- 
rade from the cradle, and laughed a little. She 
pointed to the bay, and Deidame nodded, without 
looking in the direction which she indicated; she 
had seen already, and would have known without 
seeing, that at that hour, in that wind on Sat- 
urday, the fishing fleet was coming in. 

Monime unclasped the lintel of the door, and 
signified to Deidame that she had no interest 
in its coming, but she scanned the schooners as 
she fluttered her fingers, and with such an eager 
look that the deaf-mute pointed at her mockingly. 
Monime tossed her head, and switched her 
brown skirt into the house, but instantly ran back 
to kiss Deidame, lest the girl might mistake the 
scorn as intended for herself. She kissed her 
so impetuously that she did not see the expression 
on the face which she snatched close to her own, 
the blank look of pain that followed the girl’s look 
of expectancy, as the schooners came up the bay. 

Twenty sail there was making up this little 
fleet; every Monday morning it went out to fish 
for cod, every Saturday came in again to land its 
haul, and to hear Mass, for the Acadian is as 


124 


WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 


strictly Sabbatarian as is the best of the Puritans. 
It took away with it all the men of the place, 
except the lighthouse-keeper, the two shopkeepers, 
the graybeards, and a few others who stayed be- 
hind, following one of the rare land avocations. 
From sixteen to sixty all the husbands, brothers, 
and sweethearts of Pomcoup went away to catch 
the fish which wives, sisters, and sweethearts 
cured on the beach in the sun, under the brief 
warmth of their northern summer. Monime had 
neither father nor brother coming home to her 
on that fleet which was getting itself gilded by 
the setting sun until it looked like the golden 
argosy. There was, then, but one other possible 
relation for the young girl to expect — but her 
face was dangerously forbidding for a lover’s 
hopes. 

Venerante Amirault, iier foster-mother, had 
come, with Deidamie, to preside over solitary 
Monime’s household; they were cousins, as was 
everybody in that community of descendants of 
the intrepid band of returned exiles. Osee 
d’Entremont was coming in on the schooner that 
led the fleet. He was considered the handsomest, 
the most daring, as he was one of the best young 
fellows in Pomcoup, and his daily record of fish 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


125 


was always one of the heaviest. Monime Le 
Blanc was considered fortunate to have been his 
choice, but she had been his choice from such an 
early childhood-day that it was taken as a matter 
of course, and the wedding was to be that autumn 
when the fleet was in for the winter. This one 
winter ambitious Osee would not go off to St. 
Pierre, as was his custom, to gain a little extra 
wealth, but would stay at home to begin his life 
with Monime, and to enjoy the fruits of his past 
industry. His little house was built and ready, 
nearer the church than Monime’s home, in which 
Yenerante would stay on with Deidamie after its 
girl owner had gone to her husband’s. 

Something was wrong between the lovers. De- 
idamie knew it already, but Yenerante discovered 
it when Osee did not hasten to them for supper, 
as he always did on landing, and when, after 
supper, he joined the group of men around the 
tiny shop without a glance in the direction of the 
house. 

Sunday morning came, and the priest, whose 
parish covered sixty miles, was to say Mass in 
the Pomcoup church — on alternate Sundays he 
crossed over the bay to the little church which 
stood lonely among the English houses on the 


126 WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 

east shore, and his flock from the west side fol- 
lowed him in boats. To-day the case was reversed. 
As Monime and Deidamie walked behind Ven- 
erante down the road to Mass, the bay was dotted 
with sail boats coming in procession to bring the 
faithful from across the bay to Mass. The sails 
were painted; dull Venetian reds and strong 
blues rose up against the clear sky and the dark 
background of pines, with a picturesque effect of 
which the accustomed eyes regarding their coming 
were unobservant. Monime saw nothing, not 
even the sunshine ; she was intent only on keeping 
others from seeing the angry pain that was con- 
suming her. It never would have occurred to 
her that in the breast of the girl at her side there 
was a sharper pain than in her own. Deidamie 
had loved Osee with a love that was as strong 
as her devoted heart for as long as she had been 
capable of feeling. It had never crossed her mind 
that he could think of her with other thought 
than he gave to Monime’s afflicted foster-sister; 
it was part of her life of denial, and there was 
no blemish in her entire loyalty to Monime and 
Osee’s mutual love, no shadow of suspicion that 
she could have a claim on anything but the kind- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


127 


ness that had never failed her in either of these 
two whom she loved best on earth. 

The Pomcoup men were gathered in front of 
the church as Venerante, her soft black silken 
mouchoir tied over her head, and the two girls in 
their white Sunday best, came up the walk. The 
bell of warning that the priest had entered the 
sacristy for robing fell on the ears of the bronzed 
fishermen discussing the hauls of their various 
boats, and enjoying the sunshine and the feeling 
of solid earth beneath their feet. Instantly the 
group broke up, and the men, hats in hand, filed 
into the building their hands had raised, no lag- 
gards to disturb the piety of the women; each 
was in his place, as the priest raised his hand for 
the first “ In nomine Patris” 

The girls in the choir chanted the Mass. Their 
voices were singularly light and childish. At the 
Offertory they sang their best-beloved hymn, 
which a priest who had wandered that way from 
France had taught them; appropriate it was to 
the community which went down, or sent its best- 
beloved down, to the sea. 

MonimS did not hear the hymn. It is doubtful 
if she heard or followed with more than perfunc- 
tory attention the Mass itself. But she would 


128 


WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 


not glance toward where Osee was sitting; if the 
quarrel was to be made up, he must come all the 
way to do it; she, foolish child, would not go to 
meet him ! 

Osee went away the following morning, but not 
with the fleet. He went away by coach to Yar- 
mouth, and Monime heard, through one of the 
neighbors, that he had gone to ship for foreign 
ports. 

All Monime’s pride could not keep her from 
growing pale as the summer wore away; pale and 
thin she grew, but no one dared to ask her what 
had gone wrong between her and Osee. When 
Deidamie’s sweet face also grew white and her 
step slow, the neighbors said that it was new 
proof of her dear love for the foster-sister, whose 
griefs and joys she shared. If Yenerante under- 
stood the heart her daughter’s sealed lips could 
not reveal, she made no sign. It was a sadly 
altered household that waited for the next turn 
of fate’s wheel, and waited for 0 see’s return. 

He came at Christmas, older by almost as 
many years as he had been months away. 

The Children of Mary were to watch beside 
the crib after the midnight Mass. They as- 
sembled in the house nearest to the church in 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


129 


the cold December night, heavy wraps concealing 
their slender figures, but all chatting blithely as 
they came down the road; all but two, Monim6, 
the heavy-hearted, and D6idamie, who was voice- 
less. It was impossible to tell which girl was 
hidden under the white veil that all wore alike. 
Osee, coming down the road, quickened his steps, 
passing down the line of veiled maidens, trusting 
that Monime would know that it was she whom 
he sought, and that her pride would let her give 
him one little sign on his return after so long 
an absence. Lizette smiled to him; Elise spoke 
his name, Reine said swiftly that she was glad 
he had come back, but Monime walked undistin- 
guished among her friends, and did not deign him 
recognition. 

Osee entered the church with little Christmas 
joy in his heart. The scent of the pine, the lights 
on the altar cheered him. This was home, this 
the dear familiar church where Monime was to 
be made his wife — and this was Christmas-tide! 
There could not be a doubt that Monime would 
sob her joy and loneliness out upon his shoulder 
in the morning ! He left the church at peace, and 
full of hope. On the steps he ran into the one 


130 WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 

out-and-out scapegrace in the little community — 
Adrien Le Blanc. 

“ In time to dance at my wedding, Osee ! ” he 
cried, gripping the wanderer’s hand. “ We shall 
welcome you most of all who come to-morrow, 
when Monime and I are married ! ” 

“ It is a lie ! ” gasped Osee staggering hack as 
if the blow that he had received had been a 
physical one. 

“ Is it ? Did Monime smile at you when you 
passed the Children of Mary going to the church 
to-night? She was afraid that it would anger 
me if she noticed you — as though I did not know 
how much she cared for you now, and as though 
I would not trust Monime ! ” 

Adrien smiled into Osee’s face as he spoke, and 
his words fell on a mind ready to listen. Osee 
forgot that Adrien owed him an old grudge, a 
matter so trivial that to a larger nature it would 
have been impossible to have remembered it. All 
the old distrust and anger at Monime’s treatment 
of him flamed into life as Osee listened. 

“Take her, then, and the more fool you if 
you look for constancy in her/’ he muttered, and 
flung himself down the church steps and away 
in the darkness. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 131 

A little figure in white, with a long veil floating 
out on the cold wind, followed him like a wraith. 
It was Deidamie, who had left her comrades 
around the crib, with a presentiment of evil which 
was part of the afflicted girl’s gift of clairvoyance, 
and had loitered in the shadow while Adrien had 
talked to Osee. Although she could not hear she 
had understood enough of what passed to know 
that Adrien had made mischief. She also knew 
enough of Osee’s impetuous temper to realize that 
mischief made now, after all that had been, would 
be irreparable. She knew that a three-master 
from Miquelon lay in the harbor, ready to sail at 
dawn, and she guessed that Osee was going to her. 

The young man strode down to the beach so 
swiftly that the deaf and dumb girl had to run 
to keep him in sight. She tripped on the roots 
and rocks in her path, for the night was very 
dark. The wind whipped her garments, and tore 
her veil from her brown hair, but she did not 
pause, did not realize that she was shivering. 
Osee so far outstripped her that when she 
reached the beach he had laid the oars in a fisher- 
man’s boat drawn up from the surf, and was 
shoving it down over the rocky sand with a speed 


132 


WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 


of which he would not have been capable in an- 
other mood. 

Deidamie came up and laid her hand on Os6e’s 
shoulder. The young man started, and looked 
at her a moment with a passing thought that he 
was seeing a vision. Then, as she smiled at him, 
he knew his silent little playmate of early years, 
and smiled back at her, with a passing softening 
of his heart toward Deidamie. The deaf and 
dumb girl seated herself on the dory rail, and, 
pointing out to the black waters beyond, shook her 
head. Osee’s face clouded, and he nodded with 
emphasis, at the same time taking Deidamie by 
the arm to raise her. 

Deidamie linked her forefingers — her sign for 
Monime. Osee turned away his head, setting his 
teeth with such a look of bitter wrath that Deida- 
mie sprang to her feet, and held him fast by the 
lapels of his coat, forcing him to look at her. 
Something in her eyes held him, and with rapid 
passes of her flexible hands Deidamie touched 
the finger that wears the marriage ring, earnestly 
denying that her foster-sister was to marry 
Adrien, or that she had a thought for any one but 
her lifelong lover. 

Osee hesitated. “ How do you know, little De- 


MARION AMES TAGGART 13 3 

idamie ? ” he asked aloud, at the same time form- 
ing the words in the sign language in which he 
had become adept in childhood by much practise 
with the deaf and dumb child. Deidamie flushed 
in the darkness. Osee could not see her blush, but 
he could see the luminous eyes revealing them- 
selves to him, letting him read the girl’s soul 
under the stars. All the pent-up love of her in- 
nocent life shone out at him through Deidamie’s 
eyes as he looked into them. He saw that he 
could trust her to tell him the truth about another 
woman, because she herself loved him. 

He dropped on the side of the dory where De- 
idamie had sat, and covered his face with his 
hands. Deidamie stood motionless, conscious of 
her revelation, twisting her hands and trembling 
as she waited. Osee made no sign, and going up 
to him she touched him as lightly as the touch 
of a fern along the roadside, timorously shrink- 
ing, as if she feared his displeasure. 

He looked up miserably, but seeing the fear, 
the pain in the little white face beside him, a 
great rush of tender pity for the girl overwhelmed 
him, and something almost maternal was born 
in him for her. He forgot himself in a desire 
to comfort her, as if her sorrow had no connec- 


134 WHEN THE DUMB SPEAK 

tion with his indifference to her. But Deidamie 
was not thinking of herself; it was not to win 
his pity, much less his love, that she had let her 
love shine out through her eloquent eyes, but to 
win his trust that he might believe her when she 
told him that Monime loved, and was waiting 
for him. She took his hand to lead him up to 
the path from the beach, at the same time making 
her symbol of Monime with her cold little linked 
fingers. 

Osee hesitated, but only for an instant. With 
her face uplifted and shining, Deidamie drew him 
gently away, and he yielded to her touch, follow- 
ing at last willingly. The deaf and dumb girl 
took him by the steepest but nearest path to her 
home, to Monime’s home, which she and her 
mother Yenerante shared. 

Yenerante and Monime had entered the house 
but a few moments before; Monime had been one 
of the band which had been appointed the first 
hour of guard at the crib. The girl had laid 
off her heavy wraps, and sat crouching by the fire 
which Yenerante stirred. She was cold, but the 
chill at her heart was colder. She had looked 
for Osee to wait for her and to come home with 
her, and make right their differences under the 


MARION AMES TAGGART 135 

Christmas stars in a reconciliation which should 
be a new betrothal. And he had not waited. 

Monime heard Deidamie’s step — and then she 
heard another! She sprang to her feet, and 
stood trembling as her foster-sister entered, with 
Osee following. Deidamie went up to her and put 
her arms around her, resting her head for a mo- 
ment on Monime’s shoulder as she looked into her 
face. Then she reached out for Osee’s hand and 
put Monime’s into it. She kissed her foster- 
sister, long and clingingly, then turned and drew 
her mother Yenerante out of the room. 

There was no need of words between Osee and 
Monime. Explanations would come later, but 
for the nonce it was enough that they were to- 
gether. 

Deidamie crept up to her little room under the 
eaves, and lay down on her narrow bed, shivering 
with the cold of her long exposure. Tears were 
streaming down her cheeks while yet her lips 
were smiling. For in her heart was peace that 
she, who loved Osee, had given him to Monime 


once more. 



“What God Hath 

Joined” 

ANNA T. SADLIER 

*Twas an ill moment for Elizabet Cornelson 
when her mother, who was the widow of the es- 
teemed burgher, Joris Cornelson, contracted a 
second marriage with Hans Arent. Arent was an 
ill-conditioned and quarrelsome person, being fre- 
quently complained of by the Schout* for various 
insolent practises, to the scandal, offense, and re- 
proach of the neighborhood. He had scarce a 
stiver when by the nuptials with my sister, Vrow 
Cornelsen, he came into proprietorship, for the 
time being, of the house with its new brick front 
and the garden thereunto attached, situated upon 
the East Eiver just southward of the Wolfert’s 
Valley. 

Elizabet was betrothed in her eighteenth year 
to Pierre de Brugere, a virtuous and comely youth, 
of excellent character, to whom we were all most 

•An officer of the law, charged to maintain order in the city of 
Manhattan under the Dutch administration. 

137 


138 “ WHAT GOD HATH JOINED ” 

warmly attached. A date was set for the wedding, 
but the sudden death of my sister put an untoward 
stop to that celebration, and caused it to be de- 
ferred. Because of my attachment to my niece, 
and sorely against my will, did I remain a mem- 
ber of that household in which Hans Arent was 
master. He had been likewise left sole trustee of 
the estate, and guardian of Elizabet, and it soon 
became evident that he would fain rid himself of 
my presence, and that he looked with extreme dis- 
favor upon de Brugere and his suit. He desired, 
in truth to bring about a union with a kinsman 
of his own, a loutish fellow named Jan Janssen. 
Which designs of the stepfather were the cause of 
those vexatious happenings hereafter to be set 
forth. 

Elizabet was debarred from holding any com- 
munication whatever with her lover, and upon re- 
fusing to receive Jan Janssen, or in any fashion 
to countenance his suit, was addressed by Hans 
Arent in language insulting and abusive, and sub- 
jected to much ill-usage, being deprived of food 
and immured in her chamber, whence she was 
rarely suffered to come forth. These things being 
brought to the notice of Pierre, mightily moved his 
indignation, and in secret conference with me he 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


139 


disclosed a plan whereby he might be married 
privily to Elizabet and escape with her out of the 
jurisdiction of New Amsterdam. The notion 
terrified me, since Hans Arent was a violent man, 
capable, if angered, of proceeding to any ex- 
tremity. Pierre’s arguments were, nevertheless, 
most forcible, coupled with the unhappiness of 
my cherished Elizabet and the fear that she might 
be forced into a marriage with Jan Janssen. 
Therefore was I moved to consent to the scheme, 
and to promise whatsoever assistance lay in my 
power. So complete was my confidence in the 
young Frenchman that I left in his hands the vari- 
ous details of this hazardous enterprise. I knew 
only that I was to accompany my niece, and that 
the date was set for the twentieth of November. 

Never shall I forget that date. The night was 
moonless and dark. Hans Arent retired, as was 
his wont, at an early hour, and we had but to wait 
until we heard him most audibly snoring in such 
manner as well nigh to shake the edifice. Eliza- 
bet clung to my arm timorously, as together we 
stole downstairs, carrying but a small quantity of 
necessary clothing. We stepped forth into the 
roadway and looked with caution about us, glanc- 
ing hastily backwards at the house, which lay 


i40 


WHAT GOD HATH JOINED ” 


shrouded in the dusk, giving no token whatsoever 
of life. The river lay dark and very silent, save 
for the water lapping against the shore. The 
same stillness was upon the land, disturbed merely 
by the distant barking of dogs. Those canine 
voices gave us a moment's uneasiness, lest they 
should waken the tyrant who slumbered behind 
the closed shutters. As we stood, Pierre's familiar 
accents sounded in our ears. With infinite re- 
joicing we turned to find him beside us, and made 
what haste was possible in the darkness, to fol- 
low him unto a destination as yet unknown. We 
had much ado to keep our footing, since only the 
lanthorns upon the poles of dwellings guided us 
through the murky gloom of the night. The city 
gates had long been shut, and the watch had 
passed upon its rounds. 

I confess that it was with trepidation that I 
discovered our destination to be the house of the 
Spaniard. Almost from childhood, I, in common 
with many others of the population of the burgh, 
had regarded that mysterious man and his abode 
with awe, though no doubt it was by reason of 
his foreign speech and difference of religion, 
which kept him in a singular isolation. His dwell- 
ing was of goodly proportions, its gable end abut- 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


141 


ting upon the great Highway, where it joined with 
the Beaver graft. It was the Spaniard himself 
who opened the door, admitting us into a hallway, 
square and of vast dimensions. He did not speak, 
but greeted us with a courteous obeisance, and led 
us forthwith into an apartment which I perceived 
to be an oratory or chapel, because of the lamp 
burning before a temporary altar. The sight of 
this lamp gave us courage. I felt my own spirits 
rise while I noted the color which dyed Elizabeth 
pale cheeks and the light that came into her eyes. 
After the example of the Spaniard, we three knelt, 
and while we were yet upon our knees a door op- 
posite to that by which we had entered opened, 
and a man of venerable age appeared upon the 
threshold. He was tall and emaciated in figure, 
with silvery locks flowing over his shoulders. He 
wore an ecclesiastical garb, a cassock of black, 
with snow-white surplice, to which he presently 
superadded a silken stole. His aspect was awe- 
inspiring, and, moreover, we of the Catholic reli- 
gion practiced it with much secrecy, but rarely 
seeing priests, since the laws of the colony were 
at that time stringent against the exercise of their 
ministry. The cleric knelt likewise an instant, 
then turning disclosed to us the benignity and 


142 


WHAT QOD HATH JOINED " 


saintliness of his countenance, while he signed for 
the young couple to approach. He discoursed to 
them momentarily of the importance of that step 
they were about to take and the indissoluble char- 
acter of the marriage bond. He had previously 
been informed of such particulars of the case as it 
behooved him to know, so that no time was wasted 
in making clear the situation. They were a goodly 
pair, as they stood side by side before the clergy- 
man — Elizabet in gown of mulberry colored lute- 
string, with scarf of a similar color upon her 
shoulders, and the hood falling back to reveal her 
charming countenance, whereof the beauty was but 
heightened by the startled and timorous expres- 
sion and the vermilion flush upon her cheeks. 
Pierre, tall and erect, with much courage and 
resolution displayed in his bearing, his handsome 
face aglow, his black eyes shining. Never shall I 
forget that marriage, which I was presently called 
upon to witness, appending my name with that of 
the Spaniard to the certificate. After which we 
went forth again, my sweet girl and myself 
haunted by the fear of impending misfortunes. 
***** 

Pierre, who had been ever an adventurous 
youth, had acquaintance with the masters of ves- 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


143 


sels plying between our seaport and foreign parts. 
As it was our wish to remove ourselves as far as 
possible from the reach of Hans Arent and from 
the jurisdiction of Hew Amsterdam, Pierre had 
made interest with Captain Bolton of The Mir- 
anda to receive us immediately after the marriage 
ceremony on board his sloop, outward bound for 
Boston harbor. Once in the colonies of Hew Eng- 
land, we should be safe, for the nonce, until the 
affair had blown over or Hans Arent had been 
brought to reason. 

It was a fearsome thing for a young bride so 
timid and retiring as was Elizabet to be placed 
in circumstances so untoward, and to discover her- 
self on board of a frail vessel in the darkness of a 
Hovember night. The presence of Pierre and of 
myself gave her courage, though I was all of a 
tremble, fearing at every instant to hear the 
voice of Hans Arent in pursuit. The smell of the 
salt sea sickened me with apprehension ; the damp 
and clammy atmosphere of the vessel brought to 
mind our present perils and future uncertainties. 
As I looked up at the sky, the murky blackness of 
which was now bedecked with stars, I could only 
pray God to have me in His keeping and to bring 
good out of this evil, which had been brought 


144 “ WHAT GOD HATH JOINED ” 

phout by the wicked contrivances of Hans Arent. 
These practices had compelled my beautiful and 
innocent Elizabet, her handsome young bride- 
groom, and myself, to comport ourselves as crim- 
inals, and to fly from our native city. The master 
of the vessel had intended to make sail and to 
clear Sandy Hook before the dawning, but the 
wind, which had been blowing fitfully, fell, of a 
sudden to a deep calm and brought The Miranda 
to anchor a short distance from the shore. 

The hours which followed were most harrowing. 
We awaited in vain the faintest symptom of a 
freshening breeze to speed us upon our course. 
Pierre kept up our courage as best he might, with 
merry jests upon Hans Arent and his doings, but 
the skipper showed upon his bronzed and sea-worn 
visage a keen anxiety. For well he knew that he 
had braved the terror of the law in abetting our 
undertaking. In the event of pursuit he would be 
compelled to show his license for the carrying of 
passengers, with a full description of the latter, 
and their purpose and intent in leaving the port of 
Manhattan. 

It was near the dawning when our fears were 
realized to the utmost. A small boat set out from 
shore, in appearance one of the oyster craft which 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


145 


plied a trade in those bivalves about the waters of 
the Bay. It soon became evident that it was bear- 
ing toward us, that in its stern sat Hans Arent, 
while the other persons visible we apprehended 
rightfully to be the officers of the law. I wrung 
my hands and wept. Elizabet turned pale in 
truth, but displayed no other token of affright. 
She held the arm of her husband, who still strove 
to reassure her, while the captain stroked his 
grizzled beard, walking to and fro, half in anger, 
half in perturbation. 

There was naught to be done. The vessel af- 
forded no hiding-place, nor would that have 
screened us for more than a few moments from 
an officer with a search-warrant. Hans Arent was 
accompanied by the Schout in person, and another 
myrmidon of justice, and their mission was to 
arrest Pierre de Brugere on a charge of abduc- 
tion and to restore Elizabet to the custody of her 
guardian. The latter vouchsafed me no word, 
casting a glance of furious anger toward me. Nor 
would he permit me to enter the boat, so that I 
was compelled to depend upon the good offices of 
Captain Bolton for transport to the land. 

As the sailors plied their oars in the wake of 
that other boat which had borne hence Elizabet 


146 


WHAT GOD HATH JOINED 


and Pierre, the scene was a beauteous one, as I have 
many times since recalled, though in that chill 
dawning it conveyed naught to my mind but 
misery. The morning brightened over the river, 
The Breuklyn shore lay still and serene, and afar 
Staaten Island glowed green as a jewel upon the 
face of the waters. Lest my tale be tedious, I will 
not attempt to set forth the anguish of mind 
which then and during the following days I en- 
dured. Nor could I obtain other tidings of the 
newly wed, save that Pierre was lodged in jail and 
Elizabet was in the custody of Hans Arent. 
***** 

It was Hans Arent’s purpose and intention to 
procure the banishment of Pierre from the colony 
for such term of years as would permit the ac- 
complishment of his nefarious projects. Hence 
was the lad brought before the burgomasters and 
officers of New Amsterdam on a most grievous 
charge. Even the circumstance of his marriage 
with my presence and connivance could not be 
given with such veracious details as would guar- 
antee its authenticity, since it was manifestly il- 
legal for a priest of the Catholic religion to per- 
form the marriage ceremony, stringent laws 


ANNA T. 8ADLIER 


147 


against such ministry being then in force. The 
Spaniard would be likewise amenable to justice 
were it known that a foreign ecclesiastic had per- 
formed any functions in his dwelling, and I for 
assisting thereat. 

The courtroom was crowded, since the case was 
of interest to many persons. It went to my heart 
to see the gallant and comely Pierre manacled and 
brought into the courtroom with as scant cere- 
mony as though he had been some foul criminal. 
His bearing was high and courageous, his coun- 
tenance open and ingenuous, and his demeanor 
such as to attract the sympathy of all right- 
minded persons. When the Schout had laid formal 
complaint Pierre, being closely questioned, de- 
clared that he was married to Elizabet Cornel- 
sen, to whom he had been previously betrothed, as 
was publicly known. But he resolutely refused to 
give information as to where and by whom the 
marriage ceremony had been performed. In this 
resolve he remained unshaken, in the face of the 
most urgent threats and persuasions. Hans Arent 
grew purple with passion at hearing of the nup- 
tials, for he had been of opinion that the pair had 
counted upon their being married in the New 
England Colonies, and seeing his advantage he 


148 


WHAT GOD HATH JOINED ” 


pressed upon Pierre to produce the proofs and 
likewise caused Elizabet to be summoned to the 
court. He relied upon the weakness of her sex 
and her timidity to declare that which Pierre had 
concealed, or to contradict his testimony. 

Elizabet, pale and timorous at the untoward 
situation in which she found herself, displayed, 
nathless, a fine courage in refusing to answer 
those questions which might incriminate others. 
The Schout thereupon perceiving that nothing 
was to be learned, demanded that Pierre be ban- 
ished from the colony for a term of twenty years, 
and fined one hundred guilders. The burgo- 
masters, despite their sympathy with the young 
couple and their dislike of Hans Arent, were com- 
pelled to pass sentence as recommended. Elizabet 
cast one glance at the corner where I sat, heavy- 
hearted and downcast. Then her wide, startled 
eyes fixed themselves upon the countenance of 
Pierre, who was attending to his sentence. She 
remained thus, motionless until the order went 
forth to remove Pierre from the dock. As if 
awaking from a trance, she uttered a heart-pierc- 
ing cry, and forgetful of all else flew with a swift 
movement across the intervening space and threw 
herself sobbing upon the prisoner’s breast. As 


ANNA T. &ABLIER 


149 


Pierre strove pitifully to sustain her with his 
manacled arms, there were but few dry eyes in 
the court, and especially in that portion of it 
where sat the womenfolk. 

Most of those present had known the girl from 
her infancy, and had likewise been acquainted with 
Pierre. Many were the kinsfolk and friends of the 
Cornelsen family or of my own. Hence they were 
filled with the greatest indignation and grief, and 
as the constable would have forcibly restrained 
Elizabet in order that Pierre might be removed, 
they gave audible vent to their feelings. In truth 
it was a harrowing instant, at which occurred an 
unexpected interruption. 

A remarkable figure was suddenly seen ad- 
vancing upwards through the crowd. Tall and 
emaciated, garbed in cassock and stole, the ap- 
parition cast an awe over the assemblage, and 
many muttered to themselves that it was a phan- 
tom. It was an old man with silver hair flowing 
over his shoulders and a countenance of singular 
benignity. My heart beat fast at the sight, for 
well I knew that it was the selfsame cleric who 
had officiated at the Spaniard’s house. Having 
taken his stand beside Pierre, to whom Elizabet 


150 


WHAT GOD HATH JOINED 


still clung and whom the constable was waiting to 
remove, he spoke to the magistrates as follows : 

“Your honors, I appeal from your decision, as 
being based upon an error, and I protest against 
its enforcement.” 

There was a pause. Amazement and a kind of 
consternation seized mpon the court, since here 
was a priest of the Eomish faith venturing into 
the presence of the magistrates and questioning 
the decision of this worshipful assembly. The 
chief, frowning, for there was blind preju- 
dice against all who professed the Catholic faith, 
and its ministers, asked him by what right he 
dared to appear there. 

“By the right of my sacred calling,” the cleric 
answered, “to speak a word in favor of those ac- 
cused.” 

“No word will we hear from you,” cried the 
magistrate, excitedly, and he called upon the offi- 
cer to lead Pierre forthwith from the court. The 
man, who was a rough character and a creature of 
Hans Arent, as was afterwards ascertained, made 
a hasty forward movement to obey the order. But 
the priest, motioning him backwards, stepped be- 
tween, and raising his hands above the couple, as 
though he were invoking the divine protection in 


ANNA T. 8ADLIER 


151 


their behalf, exclaimed in a low but penetrating 
voice which sent a thrill through every heart: 

“What God hath joined let no man put asun- 
der.” 

The chief burgomaster, having recovered from 
the amazement into which he had been thrown, de- 
manded to know in what manner the couple had 
been joined together, and by whose ministration. 

“By mine!” replied the cleric, calmly. 

“Know you not,” cried the magistrate, “that the 
statute forbids the performance of such functions 
by strangers ? ” 

“ I hold my commission from a higher source 
than any statute whatsoever,” answered the priest ; 
“those whom I have joined in wedlock are chil- 
dren of my faith, and I and no other should per- 
form such ceremony. If, however, your honors 
adjudge that there are penalties for the act, I and 
no other should suffer those consequences.” 

And proceeding, he made a most moving ap- 
peal in behalf of Pierre, who was arraigned be- 
fore the court, and of Elizabet, who had been so 
long the youth’s affianced wife with the knowl- 
edge and consent of her late mother and other 
kinsfolk. His words were eloquent and of a 
heaven-inspired wisdom, so that even the most 


i52 “ WHAT GOD HATH JOINED ” 

prejudiced were convinced, and then it was de- 
manded, at the instance of the Schout, that wit- 
nesses to the marriage ceremony be produced. I 
arose from my corner, and with limbs that 
trembled and a tongue that stammered, declared 
myself a witness to the act, and as the court still 
hesitated, deeming my sole testimony insufficient, 
there was a new murmur of surprise. For the 
Spaniard, arising, likewise offered his testimony. 
He was a man of wealth and of respectability in 
the town, and his evidence could not be readily 
gainsaid. He it was, moreover, who paid the fine 
of one hundred guilders imposed upon the priest 
for having illegally married a couple, as well as 
his own fine for having permitted such function 
in his dwelling, and other expenses incident to the 
case. The sentence of banishment which had been 
erstwhile passed upon Pierre was commuted and 
he joyfully paid his fine, and likewise that penalty 
which had been incurred by Elizabet and myself. 

Meantime Hans Arent had raged and stormed 
in the court like a madman, till the magistrates 
had ordered him to be silent. He had grown so 
purple in the visage with fury that I feared to 
see him fall in an apoplexy upon the ground. We 
were presently rid of him, however, for hearing 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


153 


that a close inquiry should be made as to his 
guardianship of Elizabeths fortune, a portion of 
which he had unlawfully converted to his own use, 
he fled the country in company with Jan Janssen, 
taking passage, as we afterwards learned, upon a 
vessel bound for old England. Nor is it likely 
he will ever return hence again. 

So it has chanced that though the season be 
wintry a second spring has come to the dwelling 
near the Wolfert’s Valley. Sitting upon the settle 
hard by the fire blazing upon the hearth, I hear 
the voices of Pierre and Elizabet, as they walk to 
and fro without, singing that olden song of love, 
which the aged hear as an echo and which to the 
young is perpetual gladness. While the flame 
leaps and dances upwards, methinks I hear the 
voice of the venerable missionary, exclaiming : 

“What God hath joined, let no man put asun- 
der.” 
















. 



Helena’s Jewels 

BY MARY E. MANNIX 

The drooping branches of the giant pepper 
trees, laden with their rich red berries, for it was 
the fall of the year, were casting their shadows on 
the bare ground beneath them, worn brown and 
hard by the scraping of many feet. For it was 
here that the young men and maidens danced 
in the cool of the evening, and here that old 
Pedro Nunez, the richest man in the little 
pueblo of Santa Marta, sat all day long, smoking 
the big cheroots which he bought by the 
thousand in the City of Mexico, once a year. 

For a generation he had kept the curio shop 
which had been a source of income from the 
pockets of the tourists who came daily to visit 
the little frontier town. But now he had re- 
tired, his nephew had succeeded him, and it 
was the wish of old Pedro that the young man 
should marry well. And to marry well in the 
mind of Pedro Nunez the elder, meant to marry 
houses and lands, without any great thought 

to any other qualifications, or the lack of them, 
155 


156 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


which might distinguish the fortunate possessor 
of the aforesaid riches. 

He had long been contemplating a certain 
match for his nephew, and now some twinges 
of hereditary gout in his limbs, ascending higher 
and higher, warned him that the hand of the 
grisly skeleton, death, might at any time be 
stretched forth to seize his own in an eternal 
grasp. 

Pedro Nunez loved the boy as well as it was 
possible for him to love any one, but his heart 
was in his purse. 

The gate clicked on its hinges. 

“Is it thou, Pedrocito?” he called out, in a 
thin, cracked voice. 

“Yes, uncle,” was the reply, as a tall, hand- 
some young fellow, with dark, olive skin and 
flashing black eyes, came forward smilingly. 

“Is the store closed?” 

“Yes, uncle.” 

“Good sales to-day?” 

“Very good. There was a great crowd. I 
have sold all but four of the Navajo blankets.” 

“That is well, and so early in the season! 
Sit thee down, my boy. I have been thinking.” 

Pedro sat down as commanded. 


MARY E. MANNIX 


157 


“I wish thee to marry, my boy — and soon. ” 

“Yes, uncle,” replied the young man, lighting 
a cigarette. “I, too, have been thinking of it.” 

The old man glanced sharply at his nephew. 
Could it be possible that he had placed his 
affections on some one? But no, he had neither 
heard nor seen anything in his conduct that 
would indicate a preference. After a couple of 
puffs at his cheroot he continued. 

“I have chosen a wife for thee, my boy.” 

“Chosen a wife for me!” exclaimed the youth, 
unable to conceal his surprise at this proceeding 
on the part of his uncle, who, though in some 
respects arbitrary, had never been a tyrant. 
To young Pedro this last move on the part of 
the old man was both strange and tyran- 
nical. 

“Yes,” answered his uncle shortly, not well 
pleased with his nephew’s tone. “She who will 
be thy wife very soon — I hope — is Maria Ascen- 
cion Velasquez. ” 

Now if there was a girl in the pueblo whom 
young Pedro disliked, it was that same Maria. 
Neither beautiful, amiable, nor industrious, 
she queened it over the others by reason of the 
position of her father, the alcalde, and alsp 


158 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


because, after old Pedro Nunez, he was the 
richest man in Santa Marta. 

“Hast thou spoken to her, uncle?” inquired 
Pedrocito, sarcastically. The tone was not lost 
on the old man. 

“I spoken to her?” answered he. “That is 
for thee to do, my boy. ” 

“And that I shall never do,” was the reply. 
“ I do not like her — no one likes her. It is only 
for the riches of her father that she will ever be 
married. Not for all the wealth of the City of 
Mexico would I be tied to such a one as Maria 
Velasquez. ” 

Then before his astonished uncle could reply, 
he cleared his throat, and in a voice which en- 
deavored to be firm, but which trembled unmis- 
takably, he added, “Besides, I have already 
chosen. ” 

“Thou hast already chosen!” cried the old 
man, his shaking hands closing above his polished 
black staff. “And whom, pray?” 

“The little schoolmistress.” 

“ The little schoolmistress, ” repeated old Pedro, 
his thin, high voice palpitating with rage. “ That 
daughter of a — of a — ” 

“Of a very good man, uncle, as thou well 


MART E. MANNIX 


159 


knowest. More than once he was a friend to 
thee and thine.” 

“That white-faced, slender, puny, poverty- 
stricken — ” 

“Have a care, have a care, uncle,” again 
interrupted Pedro the younger, rising to his feet. 
“Thou art old, and I owe thee gratitude, but 
I can not bear too much from thee. White- 
faced she is indeed, and I marvel greatly that 
she could see aught to favor in my brown skin. 
Slender is she, as thou sayest, but that I much 
prefer to the awkward stoutness of — ’ ’ 

“ Now, now, no more,” shouted the old man, also 
on his feet. “What dowry will she bring thee?” 

“Jewels,” answered the young man, with 
great promptness. 

“Jewels! Where hath she even the gold to 
buy them? She hath deluded thee. ” 

“ They are of a quality which can not be bought,” 
said Pedro, his eyes* and lips smiling. “They 
were given her. ” 

“When, and by whom?” 

“ At her birth, by a fairy godmother. ” 

“ Thou dost rave, boy. ” 

“ Nevertheless it is true, uncle. ” 

“Boy, thou art a fool! I will disown thee.” 


160 


HELENA’S JEWELS 


“Very well, uncle. I am sorry, but if it must 
be — ” 

“ And disinherit thee. ” 

“So be it. I am young and strong. I can 
work. I have still the ranch my father left me. ” 

Leaning heavily upon his stick, grumbling as 
he went, the old man disappeared within doors. 
Not a word was spoken between uncle or nephew 
during the evening meal. And the breach 
widened daily. 

***** 

But the bark of Pedro Nunez was worse than 
his bite. No more was said of disinheritance, 
though the old man had changed toward his 
nephew. He simply endured what he could not 
prevent, and a few days before the marriage 
announced that he was going to live with his 
niece, Dolores Tata, the daughter of his late 
wife’s sister, as the house had really belonged 
to the father of young Pedro. This project he 
at once carried into effect, much to the satis- 
faction of Dolores, who hoped entirely to supplant 
the young man in the affections of his uncle. 

Her attentions were so assiduous as almost to 
become wearisome. She hovered constantly 


MARY E. MANN1X 


161 


about him, while his desire was to be let alone. 
She was continually inventing new dishes for 
his delectation, while he preferred those, few and 
simple, to which he had been accustomed. At 
length this assiduity and unwonted vigilance in 
this regard awakened his suspicions of her motives. 
He began to sigh so heavily by day, and to groan 
in his sleep so persistently by night, that Dolores 
grew alarmed. 

“Uncle,” she said, one morning, “are you ill?” 
“No, heja mia,” replied the old man. “But 
I am sad and troubled. ” 

“Why, uncle?” 

“For that I am a poor man in my last days, 
instead of being able to count my possessions 
up into the thousands, as I had hoped. ” 

“But how is that, uncle?” 

“Did you not know, then, that I gave up all 
to Pedro?” 

“Not the store?” 

“ Yes, the store and all its contents. ” 
“Without compensation?” 

“ Surely, heja mia. ” 

“ But what folly! It is not like you. ” 
“Perhaps not; the evil is done.” 

“Dut Pedro purely supports you?’* 


162 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


“Barely. And now he refuses to do that, 
unless I go to live at his house. He does not 
feel able, he says, to pay my board here. ” 

“Is it he who pays, uncle?” 

“It is he who pays.” 

“ And little enough, ” said Dolores, sharply. 

“It seems I shall have to go, Dolores. So 
kind have you been, and so attentive, for the 
little that has been given you. I can never for- 
get it. I am sad to leave you. If I could but 
remain in this comfortable home, where I do not 
feel that I am a stranger. I have not long to 
live and — •” 

“ Quien sabe f” replied the woman, shrilly. 
“You may live till you are a hundred. If 
Pedro will no longer pay your board, it is better 
that he keep you under his own roof. I am a 
poor woman, and am not able to house paupers. ” 
“Thank you, daughter,” said old Nunez, 
rising and slowly hobbling into his room, where 
he began to pack up his possessions, a work 
which was soon accomplished. Leaving his 
effects in readiness to be moved, he betook him- 
self to the store of his nephew, which he never 
entered now save as one business partner calling 
upon another in search of his dividends. There- 


MARY E. MANNIX 


163 


fore it was with no little surprise that Pedro saw 
his uncle approaching. He went to meet him, 
received him kindly, and pushed forward a com- 
fortable arm-chair. 

“Pedrocito, I feel very unhappy where I am/’ 
said the old man, after he had settled himself 
satisfactorily. 

“ I am sorry to hear it, uncle/’ rejoined his 
nephew. 

“ Dolores is a deceitful woman. She is kind 
only because she hopes to enrich herself later. ” 

“How do you know that?” 

“ Never mind, but I do know it. I am bothered 
besides, with her officiousness.” 

“ That is a pity. What will you do? ” 

“I long for the old home, Pedrocito. For my 
own room, with the great bed and its heavy 
hangings, keeping one so warm in winter time; 
for the old bench under the big pepper tree — my 
favorite seat during forty years. ” 

“You would have us go elsewhere, then, and 
take back the house?” 

“Go!” exclaimed the old man. “Is it not thy 
own house?” 

“But we could — to pleage you and make you 
happy. ” 


164 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


“Thou stupid one! Thou pig-headed boy! 
Dost not understand?” 

“No, uncle, I do not,” answered his nephew. 
“ Explain what you want. ” 

“To live there — with thee and thy wife, if 
she will take me. Doubtless she will not, since 
thou hast told her what I said of her. ” 

“ That I have never told her, uncle. I love her 
and thee too well,” answered the young man, re- 
lapsing into the affectionate address of former days. 

The old man was silent; a tear shone in his eye. 

“Thou wilt be welcome,” Pedro continued. 
“Thy old room has never been dismantled.” 

The uncle Pedro wiped his nose with his big red 
handkerchief. 

“Go, prepare her,” he said, “and then send to 
Dolores for my goods. I will follow thee.” 

An hour later he appeared at the gate of his 
former abode. The young wife, arm in arm 
with her husband, came to meet him, kissed him on 
both cheeks as though he had been her father, 
and led him to his former apartment. He said 
little, but content and joy shone in his every 
feature. The days flew quickly, and he was 
happy. Domenica, the old servant, had been re- 
tained, and between her and the new mistress, 


MARY E. MANNIX 


165 


the house had taken on a more pleasant and 
comfortable aspect. Love, and the peace love 
brings, reigned in that little household; the ©Id 
man basked in its sunshine. Nothing was ever 
said on either side about remuneration. The 
nephew would have scorned to ask money from 
the one who had given him nearly everything he 
possessed, and it never entered the mind of 
Ellen Nunez, or Helena, as the old man called 
her, to wonder or inquire regarding the subject. 

***** 

One day as they were seated side by side under 
the pepper-tree, she with her sewing, and he with 
his interminable cheroot, he said: 

“ Helenita, where dost thou keep thy jewels?” 

“My jewels, uncle! I have none.” 

“Hast never had?” 

“Never. You know very well I was only a 
poor girl. ” 

“Yes, yes, but some one once told me thou 
hadst some.” 

“ They jested then, or mocked me, ” said Ellen. 
“Pedro will tell thee I had not as much as a 
gold ornament until he placed the wedding ring 
upon my finger. ” 


166 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


‘‘I believe thee, my child. It is nothing. 
Let it pass. An old man’s memory is often at 
fault. ” 

The next day he went into the store. 

“Where does Helenita keep her jewels, Pedro?” 
he inquired. 

“ Her jewels ! ” laughed the young man. “ Hast 
thou not seen them yet? Thine eyes must be 
failing — she wears them every day.” 

The old man looked at him curiously. 

“Ah!” he said. “I believe I understand. 
I am not so slow or so stupid. I believe I under- 
stand, ” and he hobbled home again. 

A few days after this he went to the house of 
Dolores. She received him very coolly. Scarcely 
was he seated in the patio when she remarked: 

“I have rented thy room to the commercial 
traveler who runs between here and San Diego. 
He makes two trips a week, and is away half 
the time. And he pays a good rent. ” 

“That is well,” said the old man, “that is 
well. I am glad to know that thou canst turn 
an honest penny in that way. And I, too, have 
good news,” he went on. “Some money has 
come to me that I did not expect. An old 
debt — with interest for many years. ” 


MARY E. MANNIX 


167 


“How much?” inquired Dolores, assuming her 
sweetest manner. 

“ Three thousand dollars. ” 

“Three thousand dollars?” Then sotto voce, 
“ He can not live long. ” 

“Yes, it was a windfall.” 

“Indeed it must have been, uncle. And thou 
art tired of thy present house, I am sure. What 
kind of cooking can the Americana do for thee? 
I have such a large kitchen, I could turn the 
dining room into a pleasant bedroom for thee. 
Whenever thou wilt, thou mayst come, uncle.” 

“I thank thee, Dolores,” said the old man, 
preparing to depart, “but I am very well con- 
tented with Helenita, and there are jewels in that 
home to which I have become so attached that 
I could not bring myself to leave them. ” 

“Jewels! To whom do these jewels belong, 
uncle?” 

“To Helenita. I see them every day.” 
“Where did she get them?” 

“ They were given to her at her birth. ” 

“ At her birth? Why does not she sell them? ” 
“They would be worthless then. They can 
not be bought or sold. ” 

“Thou art a silly, driveling old man” cried 


168 


HELENA'S JEWELS 


Dolores, shaking her fist in his face. 11 Why dost 
thou come here with thy nonsense? I believe 
neither in the tale of the money nor the jewels 
— one is as false as the other. ” 

“That is as thou pleasest, Dolores,” said old 
Pedro in a slow, drawling voice, getting out of the 
way as he spoke. “I think it is the last time I 
shall visit thy house, as I have no desire to be 

insulted by thee.” 

***** 

Ten months later the old man died. Some 
time before his last illness he paid several visits 
to the only notary of the village, who came, two 
days after the funeral, on a Sunday afternoon, 
to read the will at the house of young Pedro, 
in the presence of such among the friends and 
relatives as desired to hear it. 

He had remembered a few old acquaintances, 
together with Domenica, in small amounts; the 
church and Padre Juan Bautista also came in 
for a share, while his nephew received the store, 
all the merchandise and the land on which it 
stood. The will then went on to state as 
follows: 

“To my niece-in-law, Dolores Tata, in con- 
sideration of her loving care and attention — 


MARY E. MANNIX 


169 


when I did not need it — and her contempt of me 
when she thought I did — I leave the sum of 
three dollars, together with three counsels, viz., 
First, to try to cultivate respect for the aged; 
second, to look about her for some roots of 
charity and plant them in her heart; third, to make 
an effort to hide from her countenance, if she can 
not banish them from her breast, the evil passions 
of avarice and ill-nature which now disfigure it, 
that her neighbors may not flee from her in dis- 
gust and abhorrence. 

‘‘Lastly, I leave to my dear niece, Helena, the 
wife of my beloved nephew, Pedro Nunez, the 
sum of three thousand dollars, wherewith to 
purchase an appropriate setting for the three 
priceless jewels in her possession, and with which 
she was endowed at her birth, and which she has 
kept bright and beautiful through all the years 
of her sweet and useful life. These jewels are 
the virtues of kindness, cheerfulness, and in- 
dustry, which can neither be bought, sold, given 
away, nor stolen, and I pray God that their 
luster shall never diminish, nor their value de- 
crease in her kind and affectionate heart. ” 


That night there were joy and gratitude and 


170 


HELENA’S JEWELS 


prayers for the departed in the house of Pedro 
Nunez and his sweet young wife, but I am 
afraid that behind the closed and darkened 
windows of Doha Dolores Tata, there were more 
maledictions than blessings — and perhaps, a few 
angry tears. 


A Belated Planet 

BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN 

The Professor buttoned up his coat with bache- 
lor prudence, for there was a nip in the evening 
wind. 

It had been a pleasant wind all day, warm and 
soft and balmy, as became the breath of the In- 
dian summer, and laden with spicy odors of late 
bloom and berry from the meadows and mountain- 
sides over which it had taken its vagrant way. 

But it had freshened with the sunset, and the 
Professor, turning from the grim hospitality of 
his college boarding-house for a night vigil in his 
observatory, was conscious of a sudden shock as 
the gust met him at the corner, fierce, keen, blus- 
tering, a blast from old winter, whose bleak 
triumph was near. 

And as all day long the warm, whispering breeze 
had brought tender memories of an old-fashioned 
garden where the grapes had purpled and gay 
flowers nodded through the autumn paling sun- 
shine, so now the Professor was conscious of an 
171 


172 


A BELATED PLANET 


old pang stirring in his breast as the nip of the 
wind sent his thoughts back to a wide, cheery fire- 
side, where, on eves like this, the flames had leaped 
from the great hickory logs at the first touch of 
the frost ; a fireside that had seemed to his home- 
less student youth the brightest, dearest spot on 
earth, where he had dreamed and hoped and loved 
and — wakened into the pain and darkness of hope- 
less loss. 

But that was all past. Professor Elmer 
Leighton, with half a dozen hard-earned scientific 
capitals added to his name, had given up dream- 
ing for doing many years ago. 

If the old pain had wakened to-day, it was as 
the soldier’s old wound opens sometimes on a 
forced march. It had been a week of strain up 
the rugged steeps of science. 

For nights he had kept watch in his observa- 
tory for one bright particular star on which he 
had based a series of calculations that would 
settle a point long disputed by some learned con- 
freres. But cloud and mist had intervened, and 
the star had failed to appear. 

With his reputation for professional accuracy 
at stake the Professor was hurrying to his usual 
vigil now, anxious and overwrought. The last 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


173 


rays of the autumn sunset were fading behind 
flaming bastions of cloud that threatened again 
to defy his quest as he climbed the steep path 
leading to the college observatory, when a small 
voice struck upon his ear. 

“Unky Tom,” it piped, “Unky Tom, take 
Tollie home.” 

The Professor stopped and stared. It was 
such a wee mite of humanity that confronted him 
in the twilight. He really never remembered 
seeing so small a being at large before. He had 
an idea that infants of this size were usually 
trundled or carried or kept judiciously asleep. 
But this one stood upright on two short but 
sturdy legs, and its small hands were filled with 
blooms of golden-rod and asters. 

“God bless me!” exclaimed the gentleman 
nervously, as the little one dropped his flowers 
and slipped a diminutive hand confidently into 
the Professor's grasp. “What are you doing 
here, all alone, child?” 

“Tollie lost,” explained the small wayfarer 
calmly. “Tollie tudn't find mama, and Tollie 
lost. Take Tollie home, Unky Tom.” 

“Lost!” echoed the gentleman in dismay. 

“ This is dreadful ! An infant that can scarcely 


174 


A BELATED PLANET 


talk. Do you know — where — where you live, 
child ?” 

“No,” answered Tollie, shaking a shock of 
golden curls; “Tollie don’t know. Take Tollie 
home, Unky Tom — take Tollie to Gammer’s.” 

“Gammer’s,” repeated the Professor in per- 
plexity, “Gammer’s! Ryan!” and the speaker 
hailed with relief the sturdy, gray-coated janitor 
who came whistling down the hill, “here is a 
lost baby I have found wandering on the road. 
See if you know him.” 

“Sure an’ I don’t, sir,” said Ryan, staring at 
the pretty little figure in its belted and braided 
blouse; “faith, he is a small one to be let loose 
at this hour of the day or night. What’s yer 
name, kiddy?” 

“Name, Tollie Tars — ting,” was the kiddy’s 
dignified answer. 

“That bates me, and you, too, sir, I guess with 
all your learning,” laughed Ryan. “We’ll thry 
it again. Where do you live, sonny?” 

“‘At Gammer’s,’ he says,” answered the 
Professor. “Do you know any place or person 
here by that name, Ryan? ‘Gammer’s?’” 

“ I don’t, sir,” answered Ryan, reflectively, “ un- 
less — unless — mebbe it’s baby brogue for grand — 


MARY T. WAOOAMAN 


175 


grandma, sir. But you have no call to be bother- 
ing wid the lost kid, Professor. I’ll take him off 
to the station house and give him in charge of the 
police. Come, kiddy.” 

But the curl-veiled ears had caught a word of 
terror. 

“No,” shrieked Tollie, lustily, and the Pro- 
fessor’s knees were clutched by two little arms 
in a way that nearly threw the student of the 
stars off his earthly footing. “Unky Tom, Unky 
Tom, don’t let bad man take Tollie! Don’t let 
bad man give Tollie to police! Tollie dood boy — 
Tollie dood boy!” 

“Arrah, come away wid ye,” said Ryan, with 
rough good nature. “I’ll not hurt ye, sonny. 
Listen, now — I have a foine little white kitty be- 
yant that I’ll give ye all for yer own. Whisht now ! 
Stop that scraching! Don’t mind him, sir; let 
me take him, kick as he will. Ye can’t be worried 
wid an infant babe loike that, wid all the hivins 
waiting ye above, sir. Whisht, I tell ye, kiddy.” 

“No, no. Unky Tom, Unky Tom!” Tollie’s 
shrieks of terror woke the academic echoes of 
College Hill, Tollie’s small arms clutched the 
dean of the faculty with a grip of despair. 

“Don’t, don’t touch him, for God’s sake!” ex- 


176 


A BELATED PLANET 


claimed the Professor, desperately. “ You’ll send 
him into fits, Ryan. There, hush, hush, little 
boy — no one shall touch you, no one shall take 
you away. I’ll keep him, Ryan. I’ll have to 
keep him while you go in to town and — and report 
— that — he is here with me.” 

***** 

It was nearly two hours later, that a very 
pretty and excited little lady, attended by an 
equally excited maid, burst into the Seventh Pre- 
cinct Police Station with hysterical inquiry. 

“ A lost child, madam?” was the calm official 
reply; “yes, we have him, I think; little chap 
about three years old, yellow hair — ” 

“Oh, yes, lovely golden curls; my darling 
baby, my baby!” 

“Blue frock with filigree work on it,” con- 
tinued the officer, consulting his notes. 

“Yes, yes! Oh, where is he, where is he? 
Take me to him,” cried the little woman eagerly. 
“I only came to town to my brother’s for the 
day,” she explained. “ I went to church this even- 
ing, to the cathedral, and left my little boy play- 
ing with his cousins, as I thought. But he must. 


MARY T. WAGOAMAN 


177 


have strayed after me, and Mabel here thought 
he had gone with me — ” 

“I did, Mistah Policeman; ’fore de Lawd, I did, 
sah. I thought Miss Patty had taken de chile 
wif her to church and didn’t look out for him 
at all.” Mabel’s black eyes were rolling in dis- 
may, Mabel’s black face was a dull gray with 
terror. 

“He was found by one of the professors at 
College Hill,” explained the official, smiling. 
“ He is there now, perfectly safe, at the observa- 
tory.” 

“At College Hill! the observatory!” ex- 
claimed the little mother in dismay. “My poor 
darling!” 

“It is not very far,” continued the guardian 
of the law, who was not too dulled by stern, un- 
yielding duty to recognize the charm of tearful 
brown eyes and rippling golden hair under the 
demure folds of a widow’s cap. “I will call 
a cab for you, and, though I believe it is not 
usual to admit visitors to the observatory at this 
hour, an exception will be made under the cir- 
cumstances, I am sure, madam.” 

And thus courteously sped on her way, the 
anxious little mother and her maid were soon 


178 


A BELATED PLANET 


driving on through the star-lighted darkness be- 
yond the city limits. 

“Oh, where are we going? How did my 
precious baby ever stray out here, Mabel ?” 

“’Tain’t so fur, Miss Patty,” explained Mabel. 
“The college grounds ain’t so fur from Marse 
Tom’s. I often rolls his chillun out dar. It’s 
a pretty road — with lots of flowers to ketch thar 
eyes, an’ dat boy of yourn is rambly, Miss Pat, 
jes, nachally rambly.” 

The cab rolled into the college gates as the 
girl spoke. 

“Can’t get no further, lady,” said the driver, 
stopping at the foot of the steep path that led 
to the observatory. “ You’ll hev to get out here.” 

Like a bird on the wing the mother sped up 
the height to the domed tower where Ryan, the 
faithful guardian of this portal of science, sat 
smoking his nightly pipe. 

“My baby, my baby, my little lost darling — 
is he here?” 

“He is, ma’am,” said Ryan, in a tone of 
hearty relief, “an’ it’s glad I am to see ye, for 
the kid’ll give the Professor nither pace nor 
rest. Calls him his uncle, ma’am, and won’t 
lave his arrums.” 


MARY T. WAOOAMAN 


179 


“Oh, take me to him, take me to my darling 
at once,” cried the lady hysterically. “He is 
frightened to death, I know, in this strange, 
lonely place.” 

A strange place, indeed, it seemed for baby 
feet to stray ! Ryan led them up dim, stone steps, 
lighted only by the glimmer of his lantern, and 
winding high into dusky space. 

“De Lawd!” panted Mabel, as she followed 
her little lady, “whar is we a-climbing to, Miss 
Pat?” 

Then suddenly the stairs ended at the arched 
doorway of a room domed spaciously and opening 
on all sides to the autumn sky. And seated 
there in the tremulous starlight was the famous 
astronomer, Professor Elmer Leighton, the golden 
head of Master Tollie Tarsting nestled tranquilly 
on his breast. The mother started forward, and 
the glad cry died on her lips. She stood breath- 
less, speechless as this new nurse lifted a warning 
hand. 

“Hush, Ryan! Don't wake him for heaven's 
sake, or I’ll get no work done to-night. Bring 
a cushion or a coat or something and fix a place 
where I can put him down, poor little chap — a 
soft, warm place, Ryan. He is so little, so very 


180 


A BELATED PLANET 


little — and eh — " the Professor started as he 
raised his eyes from the little sleeper's face for it 
was not Ryan who stood there breathless, bewil- 
dered, with flushed cheeks and trembling lips and 
tearful eyes. 

“Patty!" he cried sharply, “my God — not — 
Patty!" 

“Elmer!" the mother dropped on her knees 
beside the man and child. “Elmer, with my 
baby, my lost baby," she sobbed. 

“Your baby! Yours!" he gasped. 

“Yes, yes, all that is left me — all, all, after 
ten long, hard years. His father is dead, and I 
was alone in that far Western land. So I came 
back to the old home, the old fireside, the old life, 
with my one treasure, my lamb, my Charlie, 
my baby boy. Wake up, precious, wake up! 
Mama has come for you, mama has come to take 
her little boy home." 

But Tollie, wiser than his little mama, knew a 
good thing when he had discovered it. 

“No," he answered sleepily, nestling closer in 
the strong arms' shelter, “ Tollie too tired. Tol- 
lie tay wif Unky Tom." 

“Oh, he takes you for Tom!" said his mother. 

“ You were always thought like him, Elmer, and 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


181 


we are staying at his house for a few days, now. 
I am looking for work in town.” 

“Work!” echoed the Professor in a low voice. 
“Work! Patty — ” 

“Yes. Mother is growing old,” she answered. 
“ I can not have her to care for both Charlie and 
me. So we came to town to-day to look for a 
place.” 

“ Yes,” said the Professor. She was still kneel- 
ing beside her child, her hand clasping Tollie’s, 
her fair young face aglow with mother-love and 
grave with mother-care, the past all forgotten 
in thought for her boy. “ And you found a place, 
Patty?” 

“No, not yet, not yet,” she replied anxiously. 
“But Tom thinks I will in a day or two.” 

“I am sure of it; in fact, I know of one vacant 
now,” said the Professor. 

“Here, in the college, I mean?” she asked 
eagerly. “Oh, if you would speak for me, 
Elmer! I am not the giddy girl you knew long 
ago. I have learned so many things. To mend 
and make and market; and though I could leave 
Charlie with mother, it would be hard to give 
him up, Elmer. I would work for very little 
pay if— if I could keep my baby boy.” 


182 


A BELATED PLANET 


“You could keep him/’ answered the Professor, 
as his hand strayed tenderly over 'the little sleep- 
er’s golden curls. “If you will take the place, 
Patty.” His voice trembled. “The old place 
you turned from ten years ago. It has been 
empty, desolate ever since — how empty and deso- 
late I scarcely knew until Tollie’s baby hand 
opened the closed door to-night.” 

“Elmer!” she cried, comprehending at last ; 
and starting, rosy with blushes, to her feet, “give 
me the baby. Charlie, Charlie, come, darling, you 
must wake and come with mamma.” 

“Unky Tom, Unky Tom,” protested Tollie as 
he was snatched, his blue eyes half open, from 
his protector’s arms. 

“Yes, yes, my darling,” said Tollie’s mother, 
hiding her glowing face in the baby curls; “Uncle 
Tom will come see Charlie again.” 

“To-morrow,” said the Professor decisively. 
“I’ll come to-morrow, my little man, and we’ll 
find the rocking-horse we talked about to-night, 
and the drum, and the kitten. Let me carry him 
down to the cab for you, Patty; he won’t let 
Ryan touch him, and the stairs are steep.” 

And with Ryan’s glimmering lantern guiding 
them, the party made their way back to the cab, 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


183 


Master Tollie Tarsting now wide awake, jabber- 
ing gleefully on the Professor's shoulder. 

" Where shall I find you?" asked the gentle- 
man as, his visitors safely ensconced in the cab, 
he held a small black-gloved hand for a moment 
tightly clasped in his own. 

“ In the old home, by the old fireside, where we 
were so happy long ago," was the faltering 
answer. “Come, find us there, Elmer." 

And as the cab rolled off in the darkness, 
Professor Elmer Leighton sprang up the observa- 
tory steps, his heart bounding, his brain whirling 
joyously, like one who, after long years of drought 
and want, drains a cup of new-made wine. And 
as he entered the domed room where he had kept 
his long and lonely vigil for nights a cry of 
triumph broke from his lips. For the battlements 
of darkness were down, cloud had dissolved, and 
mist vanished. Clear and bright in the western 
horizon shone the Star of his search — a radiant 
omen of hope and love — the belated planet that 
had risen to light his life forever. 



The Habit of Jerry 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART 

“I'm going to save his soul!" announced 
Hannah Smith with decision. 

“I should just like to know how you’re going 
to do it?" observed her neighbor, Mrs. Hallet, 
stopping her rocking to emphasize her sense of 
the unlikelihood of Hannah’s success. “First of 
all, you’ve got to find the soul to save it. Theo- 
logically we all know he’s got one, but outside re- 
vealed teaching you’d never know it — you’ve got 
to make an act of faith to be sure of it." 

“He’s sort of numb," admitted Hannah. 

“Sort of numb! He’s clear numb; whatever 
has happened to the man it’s frozen up all his life, 
soul and all! He puts me in mind of the big 
cakes of ice I saw once in a window advertising 
artificial icc — they had slices of oranges, and 
bananas, all sorts of fruit frozen in them. Your 
boarder may have sweet bits like that in him, but 
they’re all caked over!’ 

Mrs. Hallet resumed her rocking as if it would 
185 


186 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


carry her past a subject of which she had finally 
disposed. 

“All the more reason for thawing him,” said 
Hannah, suggestively shading her face from the 
heat of the stove as she lifted off her big pre- 
serving kettle. 

“You’re not in earnest, Hannah?” protested 
Mrs. Hallet. 

“That’s precisely what I am; I should think it 
was about the best thing a person could be if she 
was going to turn apostle.” Hannah laughed as 
she spoke, but the light of a propagandist was in 
her eye. “ That man isn’t bad,” she added, turn- 
ing on Mrs. Hallet as if she had been his accuser. 
“ He’s just numb, as you say. He doesn’t go to 
church, and he won’t go to church, and he’s de- 
spairing, in his quiet way. Of course, despair is a 
sin, but it isn’t a vice — I’m sure there isn’t any- 
thing wrong in the poor fellow in that way. Some- 
thing has taken the mainspring out of him; he 
has lost faith, and hope — ” 

“And so you want to practise charity,” Mrs. 
Hallet interrupted her. “Well, if any one was 
ever designed, and made, and sent into the world 
especially to that end it’s Hannah Smith. But 
how do you mean to save his soul?” 


MARION AMES TAGGART 187 

“I mean to cook for him/’ announced Hannah, 
so solemnly that round-faced, merry Mrs. Hallet 
shouted. 

“ Well, considering that he’s boarding with you I 
should imagine that’s what you’d have been doing 
all along,” she gurgled. 

Long, lean Hannah, the very antipodes of her 
thick-set neighbor, who had been her seat mate at 
school forty years before, turned to look at her 
reproachfully. 

“ I’m going to cook to save him,” she said firmly. 
“I’ve been thinking a great deal at odd times 
about the way we neglect cooking as an influence. 
I’ve been convinced more than once that we 
ought to realize how the flavor of something a poor 
outcast from home had loved when he was a child 
would affect him, how the smell, say of frying 
doughnuts, might move a lonely person’s con- 
science by recalling his grandmother’s kitchen, 
and with the kitchen of course the teachings of 
that dead grandmother, and how some one in the 
grip of a temptation might be torn from it, by — 
well, I don’t know — by a pumpkin pie, or warm 
gingerbread, or something homy if he could smell 
and taste it at the critical moment. I’m certain 
there could be a lot done by establishing — ” 


188 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


“ Mission kitchens !” Mrs. Hallet could barely 
articulate the words, she was so convulsed with 
laughter over her friend’s theory of influences. 
“ Oh, Hannah Smith, you certainly are queer!” 

“ I’m going to cook for him on a different basis,” 
repeated Hannah Smith firmly. “I’ve been try- 
ing to make him comfortable, and now I’m going 
to do more.” 

Hannah Smith was accounted the best cook in 
the community at the same time that she was one 
of its best women. Mrs. Hallet began to wonder, 
as she heard the ring in her friend’s voice and re- 
membered her skill and goodness, whether, after 
all, Hannah might not start her boarder heaven- 
ward by this strange footpath. Hannah inter- 
rupted her thoughts to say: “And after I’ve got 
him thawed and receptive by means of old- 
fashioned, home cooking I’m going to borrow 
your Jerry.” 

Mrs. Hallet’s eyes softened; this time Hannah 
had suggested an influence that her neighbor un- 
derstood and felt was irresistible. She arose 
to go. 

“You shall have Jerry, and welcome, any time 
you want her,” she said. “ I guess you’re going to 
succeed.” 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


189 


“ Jerry” was little Geraldine, Mrs. Hallet’s 
young daughter’s legacy to her mother when she 
left the world untimely, left it the richer by her 
baby of two weeks old. 

The baby had proved to be hopelessly crippled 
from birth. At first Mrs. Hallet had found it hard 
to be reconciled to accepting the maimed little life 
as the price of the blooming girl who had given it 
to her. As time went on and Jerry unfolded the 
wonderful sweetness of her heart, the loveliness of 
her wan face, the fragrant spirituality of her child- 
ish character, her grandmother had begun to see 
that only in physical strength she was lacking, only 
in her feeble limbs was halting, and she loved the 
child with a love that held in it something of awe 
as well as gratitude to her for having come to 
bless her lonely home. If Hannah saw that Jerry 
was the one who could best arouse her boarder, 
then Jerry’s grandmother was able to feel such 
respect for her friend’s discernment that the funny 
notion of conversion through home cooking lost 
its ridiculousness. 

Hannah set about this propaganda at once. She 
had discovered that the stranger whom she had 
taken within her gates had spent his boyhood on a 
farm, and, being country-bred herself, and from 


190 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


the same section of country, she knew what dishes 
had saluted him doubly, through his two senses, 
when he came in hungry from school, and she set 
about preparing them. 

The boarder was a silent, listless man, with 
nervous hands and a stoop in his high shoulders. 
Hannah had spoken truly when she had said that 
he was despairing; how truly she could only guess. 
Defrauded of all but a pittance by the man who 
had been his best friend and confidential partner, 
betrayed and deserted by the woman whom he had 
loved when misfortune overtook him, Charles Her- 
mann had allowed himself to drift into apathetic 
skepticism toward everything in which he had 
once believed. He lived a harmless life, as far as 
a negatively unproductive life can ever be harm- 
less, and the future held no hope for him, as the 
past held no pleasant memories. No pleasant 
memories subsequent to the day when he had 
left his father’s farm. But around that early life 
clustered the remembrances of a just father, of a 
sweet and tender mother whose death had been 
the end of that innocent, happy life; the first link 
of the long chain of misfortunes that followed it. 

He came into Hannah Smith’s cheerful dining- 
room and stood still a moment, arrested by the 


MARION AMES TAGGART 191 

odors that struck him with a magic that trans- 
ported and rejuvenated him. 

“What have you for supper, Miss Smith?” he 
asked. “Is it — it can’t be scrapple and apple 
butter, and — not doughnuts too? Why, it’s the 
very supper mother used to get up for us when 
father and I came in on an autumn night from 
hauling mine props to the station!” 

He spoke with such a new ring in his voice that 
Hannah’s other boarders — there were not many — 
looked up to see if it were really Mr. Hermann. 

Hannah smiled, her kindly smile lighting up her 
high cheek-bones into a kind of beauty. 

“It’s our old home supper too, Mr. Hermann,” 
she said. “ I was raised on a farm like you, and 
when I feel as if I wanted to find the little Hannah 
Smith that used to be me I cook up some of the 
things my mother used to have.” 

The man looked at her with a sympathetic 
glance, and took his place at the table silently. 
Hannah noted the satisfaction that her viands evi- 
dently had the old-time flavor, and she fancied 
that tears were not far off to serve as their sauce. 
A glamour of youth rested over her table to the 
eyes of Charles Hermann, and Hannah smiled to 
herself as she saw the melancholy stealing over 


192 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


him which was sweeter than indifference. From 
this night of the beginning of her apostolate 
Hannah preached eloquently the poignancy of 
association from the pulpit of her shining cook 
stove. 

Little Jerry was helping her to arouse the object 
of her compassion, unconscious of the reason for 
her being urged to “ make friends with Mr. Her- 
mann.” 

A reserved little soul, Jerry was not disinclined 
to her fellow mortals, and the lame child and the 
empty-hearted man soon evinced a marked en- 
joyment of each other’s society. The man told 
the little girl stories of the dear old days on that 
lost hillside farm, remembering details that he 
would have said that he had forgotten, helped 
to memory by her dilating eyes, and no less by 
the spurs to memory with which Miss Hannah 
was nourishing him. 

In her turn Jerry told him stories of her dolls, 
of the angels, of her three newest kittens, of her 
flowers, and her suspicions as to fairies that ran 
along on the city telephone wires in default of bet- 
ter playground, admitting him without reserve 
into the wonderful treasury of the mind of an 
imaginative child. 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


193 


She was a devout little soul, dear little crippled 
Jerry, and she said things to him of the faith 
which had slipped away from Charles Hermann 
with his other treasures, till he found himself striv- 
ing to keep her from seeing how far he had strayed 
from her standards, and then reproached himself 
that he sat a hypocrite in the white light of her in- 
nocent eyes. 

When Jerry fell sick in the spring three people 
stood aghast at the difference it made. Her grand- 
mother’s life was of course bound up in the child, 
but Hannah, too, realized that if she lost her little 
neighbor the sunshine of her life would go out with 
that child soul, and Charles Hermann walked 
about dazed, praying under his breath for Jerry, 
Jerry who was so dangerously ill, and who had re- 
called him to love and hope. He could not ac- 
count for it to himself, but he discovered that the 
lame child had become so indescribably dear to 
him that he seemed to be bleeding inwardly as 
death tried to wrest her from him. 

He found himself on his knees before the taber- 
nacle in the dim church where Jerry had taken 
him to see the crib four months before. 

“ Spare her, Lord, spare us little Jerry, and I 
will not be unfaithful again,” he whispered. Then 


194 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


he realized with a start of the soul that even 
should Jerry die she had fulfilled her mission — he 
had learned to pray again! 

But Jerry did not die. On Easter Sunday she 
opened her soft eyes to smile at Hannah’s lilies, 
and at Mr. Hermann’s canary, singing to her in 
the sunshine by her little bed with an ecstasy of 
joy that indicated his knowledge of human beings, 
dumbness under profound gratitude, as well as a 
certainty that Jerry’s kittens could be trusted to 
remember the lessons they had been taught, and 
to spare her bird. 

“Where is he?” asked Jerry, not yet being 
strong enough for many words. They knew that 
she meant her “Hermie,” as she called him, and 
told her he had not yet come in from church, and 
his thanksgiving communion that his little Jerry 
was better. 

The child smiled happily, and fell asleep. 
Hannah met Charles Hermann in the hall as he 
was returning, with his hands full of daffodils, 
smelling faint and sweet of spring. 

“Hannah, I want to tell you—*” he began, but 
broke down. 

“ How glad you are,” she finished for him, noting 
with surprise his use of her name* “So are we all 


MARION AMES TAGGART 


195 


glad, glad and thankful beyond words. I think I 
should have been lame in mind and heart all my 
days if I had lost Jerry; I have the habit of 
Jerry.” 

“ We all have it,” asserted Hermann. “ Blessed 
little Jerry! But — I want to marry you, 
Hannah.” 

“ Me ! No, you don’t ! ” cried Hannah in a panic. 

“Yes, I do,” affirmed Charles Hermann — who 
certainly ought to have known. “You have 
brought me back to life with the flavor of my 
mother’s homely dishes, and you have taught me 
to love you.” 

“But that wasn’t what I meant to do!” cried 
bewildered Hannah. 

“What did you mean to do?” asked her 
boarder, for the first time learning she had had a 
definite end in view beyond his comfort. 

“ I meant to arouse you, make you, interested — 
save your soul!” said the woman confused. 

Charles laughed. “And so you did, you and 
Jerry! Was that your object? Isn’t it saving a 
soul to teach it to love? And am I not back 
again, safe and happy, in my mother’s Church, 
fresh from my Easter duty? Surely you knew 
that I was learning to live and to love.” 


196 


THE HABIT OF JERRY 


“To love Jerry, yes, and to love God, but not, 
not — ’ 

“Not you?” Charles interrupted her. “How 
could I help it since you gave me myself, and all 
else ? Of course I love you, Hannah ! Marry me 
and nourish the new life you have called into being 
in me with your old-fashioned viands, full of 
health and sweetest memories.” 

“I always thought that a great deal of good 
could be done by what might be called suggestive 
cooking,” said Hannah, feebly and whimsically. 

“I should think so!” agreed her lover enthusi- 
astically. “Hasn’t it been done? We will take 
our little Jerry off to the mountains and build her 
up to strength, while you go on making me a 
saint in your own queer, dear way! And our 
Easter joy and our 1 habit of Jerry,’ as you call it, 
shall never end. Do you say yes, dear Hannah ? ” 

“Yes,” said his dear Hannah, to her own 
surprise. 


At the Turn of the Tide 

BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

“ But I don’t want him, Aunt Ray, ” said Kitty, 
tremulously. 

“Don’t want him!” gasped the good lady. 
The exigencies of her Paris modiste had made 
Aunt Ray’s breathing apparatus unequal to any 
emotional demand. “Don’t want Lord Bonni- 
thorne!” 

“He is fat, old, and ugly, and I couldn’t love 
him a bit,” faltered Kitty. 

“Couldn’t love him! I really never heard of 
such idiocy! Who expects you to love him, you 
little fool? It would be simply flying in the face 
of a benevolent providence for you to hesitate 
one moment at such an offer. Lord Bonnithorne, 
with a title that dates back to the Tudors, and a 
rent-roll of twelve thousand a year! And you, a 
poor girl with scarcely a decent gown to her back ! 
Why, he is the catch of the season. Every 
woman with a marriageable daughter in our set 
is angling openly for him. ” 

“Oh, I think he is horrid,” said Kitty, almost 
197 


198 


AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE 


crying. “He has puffy eyes, gets so stupid 
after dinner, and has had three wives 
already. ” 

“What is it to you if he has had twenty?” said 
Aunt Ray, sharply. “They are all safely dead 
and buried, and a widower makes the best of 
husbands, as every one knows. I don’t want to 
hear any nonsense, Kitty,” the speaker’s voice 
hardened; “I’ve done a great deal for you, as 
you should remember, given you six years at the 
convent, sent you pocket-money and clothes, 
and brought you up here this summer to show you 
a little of the world. I must say, considering 
that you have had only a few little home-made 
frocks and your graduation gown, you’ve been a 
remarkable success. Now that such an oppor- 
tunity is offered you of helping yourself and 
every one belonging to you it would be simple 
madness in you to hesitate. Think of your 
hard-working father, your poor, delicate mother, 
Nellie shut up in that dull country house, with no 
chance in life, little Rick with his lame back. 
I’ll give you your trousseau and wedding. It 
shall be the most brilliant affair of the season — 
there, there, don’t cry, child, or you’ll ruin your 
looks. What in heaven’s name is the matter? 


MARY T. WAOOAMAN 


199 


I hope there is no silly love affair with any one 
else?” 

“No, no,” answered Kitty, quickly, “no one 
else cares for me. Only give me time to think, 
Aunt Ray, give me time. ” 

“Take your time, then,” said the lady, her 
tone softening somewhat; “only remember if you 
disappoint me in this matter I have done with you 
and yours forever. I really could not uphold 
such headstrong folly. Take your time, but 
Lord Bonnithorne must have his answer to-night.” 

And this was the momentous question be- 
wildering poor little eighteen-year old Kitty, as 
she wandered down the beach stretching far 
away from her aunt’s stately mansion, Cliff dene; 
around point and cove laid bare by the outgoing 
tide. The voice of the sea was all that sounded 
here, and oh, how deep and strong and tender 
it seemed to Kitty to-day, after all the gay 
clamor of the house-party — the dancing and din- 
ing and the tittle tattle of the gossiping guests, 
after Lord Bonnithorne’s stupid flatteries. The 
long swelling note of the waves recalled so many 
tender sounds to Kitty — the wind that swayed 
the cedars in her mountain home; the full organ 
notes in the little convent chapel; the deep, 


200 AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

strong college chorus that woke the echoes of the 
hills last Christmas, when Gerald, Aunt Ray’s 
step-son, had stopped with a camping party 
for a “coon hunt” in the Maryland woods. Oh, 
what a gay, glad Christmas it had been for little 
Kitty — with sleighing and skating and coasting, 
and Gerald the life and leader of all. Ah, she 
had heard his story since — Aunt Ray had told 
her how he had been madly in love with Aline 
Armistead, and since her marriage had forsworn 
all womankind. 

Really it had not seemed so last Christmas, 
but Kitty had only been a schoolgirl then, with 
her hair in braids — and of course Aunt Ray, 
being Gerald’s stepmother, knew. And now 
Lord Bonnithorne had proposed, and it was her 
duty, Aunt Ray said, to marry him. Her duty! 
Could a loveless, hateful marriage be duty, 
little Kitty pondered, while tears dimmed the 
eyes that Gerald had called wood violets; and she 
wandered on heedless of distance, past the narrow 
stretch of sand that girdled Pirate’s Point, where 
the shore rose in great, rugged cliffs that curved 
in to form the cove. 

The sky had darkened literally as well as 
metaphorically for Kitty; the black cloud that 


MARY T. WAQGAMAN 


201 


had lain on the edge of the horizon had risen 
sullenly; the waves, still held by the mystic 
force of the tide, began to curl into white foam- 
wreaths — but Kitty, absorbed in the doubts, 
fears, memories crowding upon her, wandered 
on under the frowning cliffs, the threatening sky, 
heedless of the gathering storm. 

* * * * * * 

“ Engaged, you say? Little Kitty is engaged? ” 
The stalwart sunburned young gentleman, whose 
"man” had just dropped a varied array of 
hunting traps at the Cliffdene porch, spoke with 
unusual vehemence. 

“Yes,” replied his stepmother with irrepressi- 
ble satisfaction; “ engaged to Lord Bonni- 
thorne — ” 

“Not that bloated old roue!” exclaimed 
Gerald Granville, excitedly. 

“Really I must beg you to remember that 
Lord Bonnithorne is my guest,” said the lady 
severely. 

“Which, to be frank with you, Madame m6re, 
adds nothing to his credit. The summer guests 
at Cliffdene are not at all above reproach. When 
I heard you had little Kitty here I came — but — 


202 


AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE 


well, I must say, I really expected nothing so 
sudden as this. " 

“Nor I,” said the lady, triumphantly; “I 
never heard of such good fortune. Lord Bonni- 
thorne has just left me. He is ready to make 
the most generous settlements. The Bonnithorne 
diamonds are to be reset to suit Kitty's girlish 
beauty, his castle transformed to her taste. 
Really, the child's luck has almost taken my 
breath. " 

“And mine," was the due rejoinder. “I 
suppose I ought to congratulate you on your 
matchmaking and Miss Kitty on her conquest, 
but I have no time to wait. " 

“No time!" echoed the lady. “I thought 
you would give us a part of your summer, Gerald. 
Men are so scarce on the beach, and Aline Armis- 
tead is here — and free — " 

“So I understand. But you know my notions 
of divorcees. I have Romish ideas, as you say, 
on that and many other subjects. I don't care 
to renew Mrs. Armistead's acquaintance, so if you 
will let Martin go up to my room, and collect the 
few things left there I'll say good-by. I really 
can’t get into a dress suit for dinner, so I'll take 
a bite at Morton's by the cove, and then — Well, 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


203 


I'll be off to Egypt or Norway — I can’t say 
which.” 

And, despite his stepdame’s really sincere 
protests, the gentleman strode away in a mood 
he found painfully inexplicable, taking the high 
road that led along the bluffs, as the great ridge 
of cliff was called, that, jutting out sharply into a 
point about a mile from Cliffdene, curved back 
into the cove, a treacherous stretch of sand that, 
broad and bare at certain hours of the day, 
was now swiftly filling with the white-capped, 
angry waves surging back with the “turn of the 
tide.” 

As Mr. Granville paused on the road that led 
along the verge of the cliff, to look with gloomy 
eyes on the gathering storm, he became sud- 
denly aware of a slender white-robed figure 
hurrying desperately along the narrowing sands 
below. 

“Good Lord! the tide is racing in like a mill- 
stream! She will be caught!” he exclaimed. 
“She will never make the point, fly as she may, 
and — My God!” as the speeding figure cast 
a frightened upward glance at frowning cliff and 
blackened sky; “it’s Kitty, little Kitty Vane!” 
And in another moment Mr. Gerald Granville, 


204 


AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE 


with all the skill of an Alpine climber was scram- 
bling down the sixty feet of cliff, forgetful of all 
things save the little girl with violet eyes who was 
in dreadful peril below. 

Higher and higher leaped the waves as Kitty 
sped on, while the great storm dragon rearing 
its mighty form across the sky began to mut- 
ter ominously, and forked tongues of flame 
lighted sea and shore. On and on the little flying 
figure went in its mad race with the tide. But 
the rushing waves, lashed by the rising wind, won. 

Kitty reached the point that barred her way to 
safety to find the breakers boiling high over the 
narrow path that skirted its base. Only the 
Pirate's Stair remained to her — a steep, jagged 
ascent cut in the cliff, that even on a summer 
noonday she would not dare. Now, swept by the 
storm, veiled in flying foam and spray, it was 
impassable even to steadier feet than hers. 
For a moment her brave heart chilled; trembling, 
she crouched against the rock, feeling all was 
over. She must die, die here alone, and as the 
old familiar prayers of love and trust rose, there 
came the thought that perhaps even this wild, 
dark fate was better than that to which she was 
so nearly pledged. 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


205 


“My God, help me, help me to die,” she cried, 
as the storm burst in all its fury. And then 
through crash and roar and foam and flood 
came a voice that made the trembling girl’s 
heart leap to her lips. 

“Kitty,” it called, “wait, Kitty. I am 
coming. ” 

“Gerald!” the cry rose like that of the storm- 
tossed bird to its mate, as, through the wild 
chaos of foam and flood a stalwart form came 
leaping to her side; “oh, is it Gerald?” 

“Yes, it is I, little Kitty — it is I. Thank 
God, I reached you in time. ” 

“Oh, but you will die with me, you will die 
with me! Gerald, dear Gerald, you can climb 
the stairs. Save yourself. I am not afraid to 
die. Leave me, Gerald.” 

“Leave you, Kitty? Leave you here alone? 
I would rather die a thousand times. But I 
will save you if you will trust me. Put your 
arms around my neck, hold fast to me, and I 
will take you up the rocks. ” 

“Oh, no, no, you can not. You will die with 
me, for me, Gerald. Save yourself, oh, save 
yourself. Leave me, Gerald.” 

“Kitty, listen. I will not leave you, because 


206 AT THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

I love you. Whoever or whatever may stand 
between us I love you better than my own life. 
I came up here to-day to tell you so, to claim you 
for my own, and I heard, Kitty — but no matter 
— I tell you this now, that you may know that 
to die with you would be no harder than to live 
without you.” 

A mighty bolt seemed to rend the cliffs asunder, 
the heavens flashed into awful light, the waves 
leaped, foaming, almost to their waists, but 
neither heard nor saw, for Kitty’s arms were 
outstretched, her sweet face radiant with joy. 
as she uplifted her tremulous voice. 

“Then take me, Gerald, save me, for yourself, 
for I love you; love you, beloved, alone. Let us 
live or die together.” 

And lifting the slender figure in his arms he 
bore her up the storm swept cliff. 

* * * * * 

Even the rock-hewn walls of Cliffdene shook 
with the tempest, the fiercest, as Aunt Ray 
assured her frightened guests, that had visited 
the shore for years. 

Little Kitty Vane was missing through it all. 
She had been seen by some of the servants 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN 


207 


taking the path to the cove before the storm 
burst, and grave fears were felt for her safety — 
fears that deepened into wild alarm when a 
search party discovered her little sailor hat and 
broken parasol caught in a ledge of the rocks. 

But at sunset a mounted messenger arrived 
with tidings that changed Aunt Ray’s hysterical 
grief into wrath: 

“ Dear Madame Mere : Have no anxiety about 
Kitty. I have saved her from death — and 
Lord Bonnithorne. We were married an hour 
ago at St. Mary’s and are happy as two foolish 
lovers can be. You will hear from us again when 
we reach Nice. Good-night. Gerald.” 



The Piebald Nag 

An Old-Fashioned Love Tale. 

BY ANNA T. SADLIER 

It was upon a lovely morning in May that I 
caught my first sight of the piebald nag driven, 
ever so slowly and with evident trepidation, by 
the fairest and daintiest vision that ever set a 
heart throbbing against the ribs. Need I particu- 
larize that it was a girl, still in her teens, prettily 
clad in a spring-like costume, crowned by a large 
hat which seemed, to my inexperience, a mass of 
green foliage? It matched the trees and the 
grasses by the wayside. I caught one swift glance 
from eyes so deeply shaded by long lashes that 
I scarcely divined their color, though I was quite 
prepared to swear that they were the incompa- 
rable hue for me. I hastened home to inspect my 
toilet, to be assured that my necktie was in place, 
my hat at a right angle, my coat of a modish 
shape, and my hair properly brushed. I had 
never been a dandy before, but I began from that 
time forth a career of foppery which might have 

caused Beau Brummel to stare. That, with many 
209 


210 


THE PIEBALD NAG 


other things, I may set down to the account of the 
piebald nag, who, with his slow and mincing gait, 
permitted the dart from those eyes to reach me. 

Upon the following day I stationed myself 
in the selfsame point by the roadside, not so very 
far from my home, where the trees overarched and 
a tiny stream, gurgling over the rocks, made pleas- 
ant melody. I had discovered in the meantime — 
oh, blissful knowledge — that the fair charioteer 
was Miss Margaret O’ Hagen, and that her father 
had rented a big house at some little distance 
from our own during my last year’s absence at 
college. This gave me the assurance that the 
young lady would be certain to pass by that road 
very frequently. 

Therefore I was in position to catch the very 
first glimpse of the piebald beast and of those 
hands, too small for the task of controlling him. 
The animal had a waggish look about him, as if 
he were quite well aware that such was the case, 
and only allowed Miss Margaret to believe that 
she was managing him. His spice of humor 
showed itself more evidently as he drew near 
to where I stood. For he kicked up his heels and 
away, so that I had but a fleeting vision of a 
dainty figure, enveloped in a cloud of white, which 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


211 


flew past me. A confused metaphor ran through 
my head, wherein angels had a part, as also the 
nag whom I objurgated. 

By his sudden start, however, he had done me 
a service after all. For there lay in the road, 
when the vehicle had passed, a tiny purse. I 
captured it and held it in my hand reverently, as 
though it had been a sacred relic. My foolish 
heart bounded. I stowed it away in my vest 
pocket, close, oh, very close to that organ which 
was palpitating so vigorously, and I got through 
that night as best I could. I walked up and down 
until a late hour, smoking cigarettes and gazing 
up at the stars, which I envied because they were 
looking down upon her. I had discarded her 
name by this time and attached myself solely 
to the pronoun. I inhaled the fragrance of lilac 
and of honeysuckle with delight, though these 
odors are highly provocative of the complaint from 
which I was suffering. There is so much sweet- 
ness in their fragrant breath, so much of spring, 
and they typify in some sort, immortal youth, 
and love, which is its enchantment. 

The next day and the next after that I waited 
and waited, my heart torn with despair and yet 
with a delicious expectancy. At any moment she 


212 


THE PIEBALD NAG 


might come. I remained out there for the greater 
part of each afternoon, taking off my hat and 
allowing the breeze to blow over my fevered fore- 
head. My father, chancing to come by, and quite 
unaware of my plight, advised me to cover my 
head, and indeed to go in out of the sun, unless 
I wanted to get a stroke. I scorned the advice 
and resented its prosaic triteness. I fingered the 
purse lovingly with hands that trembled, and I 
pondered, as I stood, while the tiny brooklet 
seemed to echo my thoughts, whether or not I 
should screw up my courage and go boldly up to 
the big house with my treasure trove. 

At last, upon the third day, with a pounding 
of the heart which sounded like a hammer in my 
ears, I perceived once more approaching that 
yellow and white mane and the honest parti- 
colored face of the nag. One might have thought 
that he had compassion upon my case and tipped 
me a friendly wink, for, as he drew near, he 
began to lag, and to put one foot before the other 
— or was it sweet maid Margaret herself, though 
I dared scarce think so, who purposely slackened 
rein that she might triumph over the sorry 
plight to which, in a brief interval of time, she 
had reduced me? Even the most angelic of 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


213 


these beings have their weaknesses. Overcome 
by a sudden panic, I retreated behind two large 
trees, and had hardly done so when the nag 
brought close to me his precious freight and came 
to a dead stop. Presently I heard the sweetest 
voice, which addressed not me, but the piebald one : 

“Was it here do you think, old Spot,” she 
inquired, “that I lost my pretty purse? It was 
your fault, making that wicked start, you bad, 
bad, old Spot!” 

She alighted as she spoke, and, contradicting 
her words, caressed the nose of the malefactor, 
who seemed sensible of her favors and gently 
rubbed his nose against her arm. She began, 
after that, to seek among the grasses by the way- 
side, and the buttercups and clover blossoms, gip- 
sy children of the spring. I, enjoying the delicious 
spectacle, did not come forth at once. Sorrowful 
and disappointed at last from her fruitless search, 
she stood upright and I saw a tear fall from her 
eyes. My heart leaped into my mouth. I could 
stand it no longer. Blushing furiously, I came 
forward. She started at sight of me, with a quick 
glance of alarm which presently changed to a 
roguish twinkle. She eyed me in silence, however, 
while I contrived my little speech. I found it 


214 


THE PIEBALD NAG 


difficult enough, though I had delivered a flowery 
oration at the college commencement and had 
been highly commended for my eloquence. 

“Forgive me for addressing you/’ I said, “but 
you seem to be looking for something.” 

“Yes,” she answered gravely, “I am looking 
for a purse which I dropped hereabouts some 
two or three days ago.” 

“And which I was fortunate enough to find,” 
I exclaimed eagerly, extending the missing 
trinket. 

She took it with a quick movement of delight, 
which was inexpressibly charming, and turned 
her eyes full upon me, crying: 

“Oh, I am so glad! You don’t know how I 
value this little purse. Thank you so much.” 

“It has been a great happiness for me,” I 
ventured, and I would have said more if she had 
given me the smallest encouragement, for who 
so bold as your shy man once his tongue is un- 
loosed by love? Miss Margaret glanced at me 
in surprise, then she smiled and said frankly: 

“You are a stranger in the neighborhood ? ” 

“I was born and bred here,” I answered. “I 
have spent the greater part of my twenty-three 
years not far from this spot.” 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


215 


“ Indeed ! Why, it is strange I have never seen 
you, till — till the other day, and yet I have been 
living close by for six months.’' 

“All that time I was at college,” I explained; 
“but I have come home now to stay, and since 
my family is known to yours, perhaps I may ven- 
ture to introduce myself.” 

When I mentioned my name, which is well and 
honorably known in that part of the country, her 
reserve vanished as a snow-mist before the sun. 
She thanked me warmly for her purse, and told 
me the special reasons why it was of value, and 
made my heart glad by an invitation to call at 
the big house. I went home that afternoon walk- 
ing upon air, with my head held high, smiling 
at every one I encountered. Never was courtier 
honored by his sovereign more proud and gratified 
than I by that permission. I barely waited two 
or three days for decency’s sake before accepting 
that invitation. From that time forth my visits 
to the big house were so often repeated that my 
father began to twit me about the matter, and 
my mother to look half-sad, half-smiling, realizing, 
no doubt, that that time had come when she 
was no longer the only woman in the world for 
me. I did not know it then, nor till long after- 


216 


THE PIEBALD NAG 


ward, that my father and Miss Margaret’s father 
joked and laughed together over their pipes about 
the sudden fancy which had smitten me, well 
pleased, indeed, as they confided to each other, 
that it should be so. They were only anxious that 
the young things should make a match of it. This 
love, which was so sacred a thing to me, was thus 
disposed of by these hoary philosophers as though 
it had been a common every-day affair. Mean- 
time the air grew daily more and more roseate 
for me, till it rivaled, as the summer went on, 
the poppies and gladiolus. The skies waxed 
bluer, and in the bird-notes I heard my own glad- 
ness repeated. I could not choose but give thanks 
to the Creator, who had made the world so fair 
and given such gladness to His creatures. For 
an honest love leads the heart upward, and this 
is a truth which can not be gainsaid. 

Margaret’s father had, however, confessed to 
mine that he could not understand the ways of 
women, and that he had no notion whatever 
whether his daughter regarded my suit seriously, 
or was merely enjoying a summer romance and 
keeping a boy’s heart in leading-strings for a time. 
I knew not myself how the land lay, and at times 
was convinced that my passion was a hopeless 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


217 


one, and that I should have to go away to some 
distant country and forget. Margaret gave me no 
sign of special favor. I was simply one of many. I 
took my cup of tea almost every afternoon from 
the girl’s fair hands, and I suffered her to beat 
me at tennis, although I was a champion. Or, 
when she permitted me to play upon her side, 
I wielded my racket with a fiery ardor which soon 
suffused my face with crimson and incapacitated 
me from personating properly the role of a roman- 
tic young lover. So that I forswore tennis, and, 
as often as possible, persuaded Margaret to sit 
in a rustic chair under the trees, where she made 
an exquisite picture, and where I, in the grass at 
her feet, might read poetry. Sometimes I threw 
away the book and we talked of many things, she 
keeping deftly away from that one theme which 
occupied me. When I attempted to address 
her in the language of compliment, or to hint at 
the love which was consuming me, she instantly 
reduced me, in her own pretty, imperious fashion, 
to a wordless and despairing smoking of cigar- 
ettes. 

It was the piebald nag who came at last to 
my rescue. I feel assured that the wise old beast 
had long observed the state of affairs, as was evi- 


218 


THE PIEBALD NAG 


dent from the expression of his waggish face, and 
had determined to bring matters to an issue. Just 
about that same spot where I had seen Margaret 
first, and whither I made a daily pilgrimage, the 
nag kicked up his heels and shied, and, for the 
first time in his parti-colored career, ran away. 
I was promptly upon the scene, breathless, terri- 
fied at the sight of Margaret’s peril, and I caught 
the flying steed, not, however, before he had con- 
trived to throw me down and give me a blessed 
kick or two. I had some nasty scratches and a 
few moments of unconsciousness, from which I 
awoke to find Margaret weeping over me and 
calling me by some very pretty names which I 
had despaired of ever hearing from her lips. My 
recovery was very rapid. I drove that sagacious 
animal home. He was as quiet and tractable 
as a lamb, going, indeed, at such a snail’s pace 
as proved him to be possessed of a preternatural 
wisdom. By the time we reached the door of the 
big house the dearest wish of our respective 
fathers was granted — we were engaged. 

My own dearest wish was granted, too, and I 
discovered, wonderful, magical, as it seemed, that 
Margaret loved me. In her fear for my safety 
and in the excitement following upon the acci- 


ANNA T. SADLIER 


219 


dent, she had revealed the secret which she had 
been at such pains to conceal. We conversed upon 
that subject and no other all the way to the big 
house, and I am free to confess that, in spite of 
the piebald’s efforts, the time seemed entirely 
too short. When we were alighting at the door, 
Margaret cried fervently: 

“I shall never forgive old Spot for having so 
nearly killed you. I think I shall have him sold.” 

“ My dearest,” cried I in alarm, “ he is my chief 
benefactor. I wouldn’t have him sold for the 
world. On the contrary I am deeply grateful, and 
feel that I owe him all my happiness.” 

Margaret smiled then comprehendingly, and 
oh, so bewitchingly, shooting a glance from under 
her long lashes, and exclaiming : 

“The very idea! As if you could owe your 
happiness to an old piebald nag!” 





































. 




























Bruin and Her Baby 

BY JEROMF HARTF. 

Bruin belonged to the classes, as opposed 
to the masses. Bruin could not help it, she 
was born that way ! Before she came north to 
college, she was Miss Deborah Dempster of 
the Dempsters of Dempsterville, Kentucky 
— you know the family. She could well af- 
ford to be a haughty lady, for the old family 
of Kentucky Dempsters had held for many gen- 
erations a high place in the Southern heart. 
There had been soldier generals in that family 
from time immemorable — and Bruin's uncle had 
died fighting for the Confederacy. Her great- 
great-grandmother had been the most beautiful 
woman and the greatest belle of her day, and 
Bruin was much like her, in a modern sense. 
Men liked her and she was supremely indifferent 
to them; girls adored her and she cared very little 
for them; older people were nice to her because 
she was Miss Deborah Dempster of Kentucky, you 
know — and they bored her. She cared little or 

nothing for homage, having had a life full of it, 

221 


222 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


From infancy, Miss Deborah had had black 
attendants all her own, negroes with the rare 
old slave spirit still a part of them. Time 
was when the Dempsters could buy and sell 
a thousand slaves and pay them, freed, good 
money. That was the time when the Demp- 
ster coffers were full and the Dempsters lived 
in one round of opulence and glory. But 
when, in her twentieth year, Miss Deborah 
came north to college, she brought only a 
modest box of family jewels and some rare old 
lace in her limited wardrobe — and little else 
to speak of. People who knew said that the 
Dempsters of Dempsterville were beginning to 
want the merest necessities of life, and that 
Deborah, the only child, had sped North to work 
that she might stay the tide of family ruin. And 
work she certainly did! The college knew no 
better work than hers! 

The college girls nicknamed Deborah before 
the sun had gone down on the day of her arrival. 
She was tall and brown, lacking much of the 
deliberate grace and willowy slenderness of the 
Southern girl. She had inherited broad shoulders 
and a keen eye from her father, she strode rather 
than walked, her voice was deep, and its soft 


JEROME HARTE 


223 


fcoutnern drawl took on in the North a quick 
decisive note that had some sharpness in it. She 
was plump and as trim as a severely tailor-made 
girl can be. She seldom lapsed into the trailing 
softness and fluffiness of a Southern woman’s 
make-up. She had a fine old pink satin and laco 
bedrobe in her trunk, and Billie, her merry little 
room-mate, coming in unexpectedly one day, 
caught her dressed in this splendid creation. 
It fell about her feet and was low at the neck, and 
Bruin had done her abundant brown hair in a 
low coil at her neck. She was like some elegant 
painting. Billie, the irrepressible, screamed with 
delight and yelled for some one to come and see, 
but Bruin jumped up and tore the robe off and 
hid it before anybody else could come. Billie 
never saw her wear it again, but she loaned it 
for theatricals. In a ballroom she was a queen. 
She had only one ball dress, an ivory satin 
trimmed with rare old lace and yards and yards 
of fluffy flounces. It was stately and magnificent, 
and there was nothing like it in college. But as 
I said, she seldom lapsed into the trailing soft- 
ness of such a gown. Everyday, she wore a 
short brown skirt, the same one always, with 
stitched bands and a chatelaine bag at the belt. 


224 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


a bronze shirtwaist with linen collar and cuffs 
and a narrow long tie, and she wore her shining 
dark hair coiled on the top of her head. She 
seldom varied. On Sunday, she put on a lace 
collar and cuffs and slipped a little diamond pin 
into her tie. If there were guests at dinner, she 
would not come down, for her only dressy 
dress, the ivory satin, she said was too much 
trouble, and the matron was against shirtwaists 
in the presence of guests. 

Because Miss Deborah was so big and brown 
and sleek-looking, the girls dubbed her Bruin. 
She took it laughingly — every girl had a nick- 
name! Billie, her room-mate, teased her the very 
first week of college and Bruin growled. Billie 
howled with delight. 

“You are a regular bear!” she cried. 

Bruin laughed, too. She was not the girl to 
be annoyed by youthful banter. 

The girl who roomed next door to Bruin was 
a plain little thing with pointed blue-white teeth 
and scrimpy dull black hair that never looked 
well. She was a bright girl and everybody liked 
her, but her friends called her Roddy, which only 
a college girl, I suppose, could elucidate as short 
for Rodent! She and Bruin were great friends. 


i 


JEROME HARTE 


225 


All the girls said that Bruin would marry young. 
Most Southern women do. But Bruin said very 
quietly that she could not afford to waste her 
college training; she intended to teach. The 
girls applauded — and understood. They had 
heard about the financial dilemmas of the Demp- 
sters of Dempsterville, Kentucky. 

It would take time to tell of Bruin’s many 
love affairs. Men came from the four corners 
of the earth to see her. and at every Glee Club 
concert or other college function, Bruin, in her 
ivory satin — or the bronze shirtwaist — faced at 
least two men. Most of the college girls had 
strenuous times inviting men up; but I think 
Bruin never asked one to come. Her father or 
her cousins sent them, and they jumped at the 
chance. The new men whom she met fell in 
love at sight and the Yale men — the big fellows 
— said she was a brick. She was. All the girls 
felt sure that marriage was her destiny, and they 
felt, too, that her family would not object — if 
the man had money enough. You see, the Demp- 
ster fortunes had to be mended somehow! 

In her freshman year, Roddy’s brother John 
came to visit. He was like Roddy, but big and 
broad. He was bald on top and the rest of his 


226 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


hair was like his sister's. He was well-groomed 
and distinguished-looking, and his clean-shaven 
face, though not handsome, was good to look at. 
The girls had known all along that Roddy was 
rich. Her manicure lady and her shampoo 
lady and her washlady and her seamstress and 
her tailor were the envy of their lives, but her 
brother's touring-car and his chauffeur and his 
princely way of entertaining Roddy’s friends 
took them quite by storm. Roddy had more 
friends than ever — and she was always a popu- 
lar girl. 

Bruin did not seem to make an instant hit 
with Roddy's brother, as she did with other men. 
Roddy suddenly treated her rather coolly and 
took her out with them but once. The girls 
wondered at it. 

Roddy was a Roman Catholic. My story 
happened before the days of our own great girls' 
college of the present and Roddy, with a splen- 
did Catholic preparatory education, had elected 
to take a course among the daughters of the 
Puritans. She often let Billie go to Mass with 
her. Billie had no faith, she was born that way; 
but also, she had little bigotry. She liked to go 
to church with Roddy and she liked to be told 


JEROME HARTE 


227 


about the faith of our fathers. After a time, 
Roddy — and other things — made a Catholic of 
Billie. But that, as you know, will make another 
story. 

Billie had discovered that Roddy had a horror 
of mixed marriages, which she said, vehemently, 
were a curse. She had seen the folly of them in 
the case of a dead sister and she was very bitter. 
Bruin never went to any church, but Roddy 
once found out in a medieval history contro- 
versy that Bruin had stored up -an amount of 
latent narrow-minded prejudice against the 
Roman Catholics. And Billie, the keen, guessed 
that Roddy did not want Bruin to captivate 
her big brother, and, in her good-natured, 
meddlesome way, set about helping Roddy pre- 
vent it. And would you believe it? They were 
so sure that Bruin would not be steel against 
his ducats, that they contrived to let brother 
John see her but the once during his visit! I 
know they both breathed more freely when he 
was gone. 

Bruin and Roddy seemed to keep up only a 
pretense of friendship after that, although the 
strained behavior was chiefly on Roddy’s side. 
Bruin was calm and matter-of-fact about it 


228 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


and treated Roddy as she had always treated 
her. And a year went by. 

Then Roddy’s brother John came again, and 
a strange thing happened. I believe Bruin had 
been waiting for him to come again! He came 
on Saturday night and Roddy had him to dinner 
next day. 

The girls were waiting to go into the dining- 
room that Sunday when Bruin came down — 
in the ivory satin ! She swept into the girls’ midst 
and the lively chatter died a breathless death. 
She was a picture! Her beautiful hair was 
coiled as her college friends had seldom seen it, 
loose and low on her neck, and she had a spray 
of scarlet blossoms at her throat. Her brown 
cheeks were burning, and the fluffy loveliness of 
her trailing make-up made her a model of grace 
and beauty. The girls fairly gasped. She went 
straight to Roddy and her brother and put out her 
hand to the latter. She smiled her rare, white- 
teethed smile at him and her keen brown eyes 
looked frankly into his. 

“I am glad to see you here again,” she said, 
simply. 

Billie and Roddy were helpless. Miss Deborah 
Dempster, the indifferent, the cold, had set out 


JEROME HARTE 


229 


to conquer, and there was no staying her. From 
that moment, brother John’s fate was sealed, 
and I think he knew it! 

Bruin did not wait to graduate. She married 
Roddy’s brother in two months, and the family 
fortunes of the Dempsters of Dempsterville, 
Kentucky, were saved. Roddy’s brother was 
indeed very rich, and the college girls said slily 
that he had paid a good price for Bruin. She 
was worth it. But poor Roddy’s heart was 
broken. 

“Oh, yes, they were married by the priest!” 
she sobbed to Billie, the sympathetic. “But 
how much do you think that means to a bigot 
like Bruin? She ought never to have married 
any one, especially a Catholic — and brother 
John!” 

Billie agreed with her completely. Orphaned 
Billie was every day growing more sweetly en- 
thusiastic about the Roman Catholic religion. 
It was indeed hardly a year before her conver- 
sion was complete. She said she wished she 
had married John herself. Roddy would have 
had nothing to worry about, then! 

The girls sent Bruin wedding-presents and 
talked excitedly about her by candlelight in 


230 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


their college rooms. There were things about 
Bruin that made the idea of her, married, seem 
incongruous. She had never shown a sign of 
sentiment. No one ever saw her kiss a girl or 
put an arm about her; she had always greeted 
and parted from her friends with a hearty man- 
like handshake. Even when her gallant old 
father came from the South to see her, she only 
shook hands long and heartily with him. The 
girls wondered how it would have been had her 
mother lived, but her mother was dead many 
years. When college freshmen got “crushed ” 
on her, as so many of them did, and grew con- 
fidential and spoony, Bruin was coolly bored. 
She looked at them calmly, scornfully, and they 
fell on her neck but once. Now that she was 
gone, the girls asked themselves what she could 
have said to John when he proposed! 

“You may be sure she made that strong 
enough, anyway!” Billie said, a little spitefully. 
“ But I’ll lay a wager she’s been as cold as ice ever 
since!” 

Bruin had a baby. She named him Wood- 
ward, after her father, and in her infrequent 
letters to the girls, she said that he was a splendid 
youngster and bald, like his father. 


JEROME HARTE 


231 


When Roddy returned from her Christmas 
vacation, her first holiday after the birth of the 
baby, she was down-hearted. She wept bitterly 
on Billie’s shoulder. Bruin would not allow her 
child to be baptized a Roman Catholic! John 
was almost crazy and so was his family. John 
was not the kind to storm, but he had moved 
heaven and earth to give his child baptism in 
the faith. Bruin was stone. Quarrel she would 
if necessary, fight she could if forced, but she de- 
clared she would never have a Papist child ! 

“It’s awful!” sobbed Roddy. “The baby 
isn’t a bit strong and he has terrible attacks of 
croup! We are so afraid he will die in one of 
them ! Bruin has never let him out of her sight, 
and has watched him like a dragon from the hour 
of his birth! John can’t get his own baby alone 
a minute, -she’s so afraid that he’ll be baptized 
in spite of her! She won’t bring him down when 
we come to call and we’ve never had a peep into 
the nursery! We ache for a sight of John’s baby, 
but she wouldn’t let us get him in ou — our ar — 
arms if we — we were d — dying!” 

That very winter, not many weeks later, Billie 
was called to Chicago on business. She was all 
alone in the world, and some distant relatives 


232 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


were always in a legal row with her, over her 
modest little fortune. I guess they wanted a 
piece of the fortune. Some one of them had 
sued her in Chicago, and her lawyer advised her 
to go camp on the ground. 

As soon as Bruin heard of it, she wrote Billie 
and asked her to stay at their suburban home 
during her time in Chicago. Billie showed the 
letter to Roddy, and they wept together. 

“You’ll see John’s baby!” sobbed Roddy. 

Bruin was very luxurious in her new home. 
She sent her coupe to the station to meet her old 
room-mate, and the coachman was buried in 
furs, and the carriage was all satin and shiny 
inside. Billie sighed. Roddy’s brother John 
certainly was very rich, and he had rather fancied 
Roddy’s little friend Billie before that eventful 
Sunday that brought Bruin down to dinner 
in her ivory satin. But Billie’s tender regrets 
were more for Roddy’s sake, and her thoughts 
quickly turned to curiosity concerning Bruin 
and her baby. She longed to see them both. 

A butler in livery admitted Billie, and a trim 
little maid was waiting to escort her to the guest 
chamber. The guest chamber had a lighted 
grate fire in it and a vase of cut flowers upon the 


JEROME HARTE 


233 


high marble mantel, and it was splendidly fur- 
nished. Billie took in its beauty as the maid 
helped her off with her wraps. Her own modest 
fortune suddenly dimmed. It could never afford 
her even one room like this! 

Mrs. Hanavan would see her in the library as 
soon as she was ready, the maid said. Billie 
followed her across the richly decorated hall to 
the library, and Bruin got up from the fire to 
greet her guest. Bruin was much the same Bruin 
of college days. Her hair was coiled smooth and 
high on her head, her bronze shirtwaist and belt 
and tie were silk, as was also her trim tailor 
skirt, and her collar and cuffs were lace. She 
had the baby on her arm. 

She wrung Billie's hand and told her that it 
seemed like old times to see her again. Billie 
begged at once to take the baby. She bounced 
him and kissed his bald head and “couch-a- 
couch-a-ed” and called him “ittie bittie sweetie" 
names. Bruin laughed at her. 

“He'll think you crazy," Bruin said. “He's 
not used to that!" 

Billie laughed and blushed and hid her face in 
the baby's wrinkled neck. She had always 
thought that the way to treat babies! Then she 


234 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


handed him back, reluctantly. Bruin took him 
much as she might have taken a delicate bundle 
and sat with him on one arm. She rocked 
serenely, and he rocked with her, shaking his 
little rattle. Bruin did not laugh at him nor 
play with him nor kiss and fondle him, as Billie 
was longing to do. Once he cried a little and 
Bruin shifted him to the other arm, gently, but 
without a word. Billie looked about the palatial 
room and at Bruin's jeweled left hand — and at 
the baby. She had always felt that there were 
noble depths beneath Bruin’s coldness, but — was 
this being a mother? Now, if she had a baby — 
John came home at dark. Dinner-time was 
at hand, and the house was brilliantly lighted. 
John was thinner and not so trim-looking; there 
was an air of carelessness about him and his 
shoulders drooped; a line had come between his 
brows and his eyes were tired and old. 

; Bruin greeted him coolly and in a matter-of- 
fact way. The baby began to coo and gurgle 
and guggle when he saw his father; and after 
John had wrung Billie’s hand and told her in a 
tense, tired voice how genuinely glad he was to 
see her, he bent down and took his wiggling son 
to his heart. His eyes grew suddenly moist and 


JEROME HARTE 


235 


he kissed the little fellow's soft head and neck 
and shoulders. The baby got one hand in his 
scant back hair and with the rattle in his other 
hand, battered his father's bald head, gooing 
and squealing the while. John smiled, his eyes 
half-closed. Bruin coolly leaned over and rang 
for the nurse. She came almost at once. John 
went white and shut his lips hard. Then he 
handed up his son, who straightway began to 
bawl. John sat back dully and tried to talk. 
Bruin did everything so calmly that a stranger 
might never have suspected the situation. But 
Billie understood, and her tender little heart 
ached in sympathy. She wondered, suddenly, 
if her prayers would help John any! She deter- 
mined to write that night and ask Roddy if a 
person who was not a Catholic, really, but who 
knew it was the only right thing and expected to 
embrace it just as soon as she understood fully, 
could help a good Catholic sufferer by praying 
for him, too! Billie felt that John was as good 
as men were made, and she knew that Roddy 
and he believed implicitly in prayer. She knew 
that his family were praying for him, and gen- 
erous Billie had an intense desire to help him, too. 

Before Roddy had had time to answer that 


236 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


letter — two days later, in fact — a great thing 
happened. It was queer that it should have 
happened while Billie was there; but who will 
say that God’s ways are not queer in their very 
wisdom? He answers our prayers in His own 
good time; and He was ready just at that time 
to reward John’s faith in Him and the faith of his 
family. It was a good lesson for Billie, hovering 
on the brink of the true belief. 

Bruin’s servants were quite a family. The 
trim little maid was the coachman’s wife and 
baby’s nurse was her sister. The butler was the 
coachman’s brother, and only the cook was an 
alien. When the nurse’s and the maid’s father 
died in the city that morning, they went with the 
butler to the city on the first train. The coach- 
man followed them in the late afternoon, bidding 
the girls not to worry about the horses until his 
return in the morning and leaving only the cook 
to look after them. John was at business in the 
city, as usual, until the evening train. The snow 
was coming down fast and heavily, but the 
coachman said he did not think the trains would 
be delayed by the storm. 

“John’s train gets in at eight,” Bruin said. 
“He can take a public conveyance if the walking 


JEROME HARTE 


237 


is too bad. It’s lonesome out here, isn’t it?” 

They had had an early dinner, the custom 
when John could not return until eight, and the 
baby was tucked away in bed. It was lonesome. 
The maid and the butler wore felt shoes, but they 
made some noise, and the house seemed empty 
without them. Bruin played the piano and 
Billie sang. Then they played a game of ping 
pong. But it was horribly dull. They listened 
for the train’s whistle and went many times to 
the window. The wind had risen and the snow- 
storm was a blizzard. But they heard no whistle, 
and at nine o’clock John had not come. 

“ Do you suppose the train is late? ” Bruin 
said. “John usually telephones from the city 
when it is.” 

Billie suggested ’phoning and they went out 
from Bruin’s room adjoining the nursery, where 
they had been sitting, into the high, echoy hall. 
Bruin turned on all the switches and flooded the 
halls with light; it made it a little less lonely. 
The whole house was as still as only a heavy 
winter night could make it. 

Central did not answer Bruin. She tried 
again and again, and finally asked Billie to try 
it. Billie was just as unsuccessful. 


238 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


“ Could you hear any sound at all ? ” Bruin 
said. 

“Not a sound !” cried Billie. 

They looked at each other soberly. 

“It’s just as I feared,” Bruin said, quietly. 
“The snow has probably broken our wires.” 

Back in Bruin’s room they lifted the curtains 
and gazed out upon the stormy white world. 
It was a bad night. The cracking trees outside 
were ghostly sentinels and flying snow hid the 
hedges at the street gate. Timid Billie sighed 
and shuddered; Bruin shrugged her shoulders. 

They sat down again and sewed and read and 
read and sewed and listened to the baby’s 
gentle breathing. At ten o’clock Bruin 
yawned. 

“We’ll go downstairs and see what cook has 
for breakfast,” she said. 

Billie followed her down the winding, soft- 
carpeted staircases, two stories of them, to the 
basement. The kitchen was dark and silent. 
Bruin called and receiving no answer, groped 
around for the matches and lighted up. The 
supper dishes stood on the sink, unwashed, and 
the lids, half off the stove, showed the gas going 
full tilt. The top of the stove was strewn with 


JEROME HARTE 


239 


utensils that had cooked the late dinner and 
what was left of the dinner itself. 

“What on earth — ” gasped Bruin. 

They searched the basement parlor and library 
that John had fitted up for his servants and all 
the comfortable little bedrooms, but they were 
dark and silent and empty. The cook’s room 
showed some confusion. There was an empty 
hatbox on the bed and one worn-heeled slipper 
beside it. The mate to this footgear lay in a 
corner tossed up against the wall, as though it 
had landed there when kicked off. The clothes- 
press door was opened and most of its contents 
pulled off the nails and out upon the bedroom 
floor. Bruin laughed at Billie’s frightened eyes. 

“Cooks are uncertain quantities!” said she. 
“I’ll lay a wager ours has gone to the wake with 
her friends! Her best hat and her fur cape are 
gone.” 

So Bruin and Billie were quite alone in the 
great house. Billie was frightened, but Bruin was 
calm and collected about it. They went upstairs. 

“ Don’t you feel it a little chilly?” asked Bruin, 
as they passed through the halls. “It must be 
a terrible night outside.” 

They went to bed. Billie told Roddy after- 


240 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


ward that she -would never forget just how 
creepy she felt that night as she gazed about the 
whiteness and elegance of the high, sumptuous 
bedroom she occupied. The wind outside made 
the only sound in the winter world that hemmed 
them in, alone. When she closed her door, its 
squeak made her start. She crawled beneath 
the covers and sighed. Somewhere in the hall 
below, a big clock struck eleven in deep, solemn 
tones. Then another timepiece took up the 
sound and chimed the hour in silvery tinkles, 
and then another, and still another, here and 
there throughout the house. It was very pretty, 
but weird. As she cuddled down, Billie thought 
her nose felt cold. It occurred to her that that 
was rather queer in John’s well-built steam- 
heated house. The weather outside must indeed 
be terrible to produce this noticeable change in 
the atmosphere indoors. Billie said her prayers 
— the prayers Roddy had taught her. Then 
she blessed herself, and kissed a tiny cross about 
her neck; Roddy did that. 

“Poor Roddy!” she said to herself. “If only 
John had married a Catholic, we could all teach 
that precious baby to bless himself!” 

Then Billie fell asleep. 


JEROME HARTE 


241 


Some time in the night, she awoke with a start. 
Bruin was calling her and her voice sounded queer 
and far away. 

“ Billie !” she was crying, “ Billie ! come quick !” 

Billie threw back the downy quilts and bounded 
out upon the floor. She bounded back as 
quickly again. The floor was like ice and the 
cold of the room struck a shiver through her! 

“Oh, Billie, come, come, come!” Bruin was 
screaming. 

Billie had her cold bedroom slippers in her 
hand. She crowded her bare feet into them, 
and catching her icy bathrobe from the chair, ran 
with chattering teeth and shivering flesh across 
the dark, dead-cold hall to Bruin’s room. Bruin 
was in the nursery. It was lighted and she was 
on the floor beside the baby’s bed. She was in 
her nightgown and her feet were bare. 

“What shall I do?” she cried to Billie, “Baby 
has the croup!” 

The baby coughed, a harsh, rasping cough. 
He struggled for breath and the phlegm in his 
throat seemed choking him. Bruin was not her 
cool, collected self. The room was like a barn 
and the baby’s little hands, as he tossed them 
outside the coverlet in his paroxysms of coughing, 


242 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


were ice-cold. Bruin had a bottle of camphor- 
ated oil in her hands and she was trying to put 
some of it on the baby’s throat, but she was 
putting most of it on the coverlets. 

Billie pulled on her bathrobe and wrapped 
and tied it tightly about her. 

“I don’t know a thing about croup, Bruin,” 
she shivered. “I wish we could get the doctor!” 

“And the ’phone won’t work!” cried Bruin. 
“How could the fire have gone out! What shall 
I do?” 

“I’ve heard that bathing — ” began unsophisti- 
cated Billie. 

Bruin looked at her, dubiously. Then she 
jumped up and ran into the bathroom. Billie 
heard her scream. She came back with a very 
white face. 

“The water won’t come!” she said. 

“The pipes are frozen!” gasped Billie. 

Bruin stood, uncertain. Then she ran into 
the bathroom again, and Billie heard her tear 
open a window. She rushed back with a chunk 
of ice and snow in her red hands. The front of 
her nightdress was wet. She got the pan of 
her chafing-dish and put the snow in it. She 
found the wood alcohol and lighted the chaf- 


JEROME HARTE 243 

ing dish. The baby broke into another fit of 
coughing. 

“Put some oil on him!” cried Bruin. 

Billie’s hands were shaking. “What will we 
do, Bruin?” she sobbed. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” Bruin said. “Nurse 
and the doctor have been here every time he has 
had croup, and Billie, I don’t seem to know 
what to do myself! What makes you think I 
ought to bathe him?” 

“Oh, I heard, somewhere — ” began Bruin, 
vaguely, “ but I don’t know whether it was croup 
or convulsions!” 

The baby went off into another fit of coughing 
and Billie thought he was choking. Bruin 
snatched him from the cradle with a scream, 
and tried with her finger to get the phlegm from 
his throat. 

“If I could only help him!” cried Bruin. 

They tried to get some of the oil down him, 
but he only strangled and did not vomit, a 
thing Bruin said she knew would have helped 
him. He was very weak, and lay, white and ex- 
hausted, in his mother’s arms. Billie wondered if 
babies really did die with croup and she recalled 
Roddy’s words, the baby was not baptized. 


244 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


“Bruin,” Billie said, in a hard little voice, 
“he is awfully cold! Where — where does the 
doctor live?” 

Bruin stared at her a moment, wild-eyed. 
Then she wrapped the baby in the quilts and 
thrust him into Billie’s arms. 

“You could never find the way,” she said, 
dully. “I must go. Give him oil and — don’t 
let him die while I’m gone.” 

Billie was crying. “Put on some clothes!” 
she sobbed. “ You’ll freeze to death on the way !” 

The baby’s deep croupy cough sounded, and 
Bruin tore away. Billie heard her get out John’s 
high boots and drag them on, and she heard her 
get something out of the hall clothes-press 
where the heavier wraps were kept, but she 
knew that Bruin had not stopped to dress. She 
wondered, stupidly, if they would find her frozen 
body in the storm and she wondered, too, if the 
baby would be dead by that time. 

Billie sat gazing down at the heavily-breathing 
child. She was very much afraid of him. Sud- 
denly she started and looked wildly at him. 
Then she put him on his bed and ran across the 
hall to her room. She got her dress-suit case 
and wrenched it open. In the bottom was a 


JEROME HARTE 245 

catechism of Christian doctrine. She took it 
and ran back to the baby. 

“ It doesn’t say that the person must be a 
Roman Catholic!” she said. “God knows there 
isn’t a soul I can ask and the baby must be 
baptized !” 

The only water in sight was the melted snow 
and ice in the chafing-dish and it was warm. 
Trembling Billie dipped her fingers in it and 
with the catechism open in her other hand, 
sprinkled the drops upon Bruin’s baby’s little 
bald head. 

“ I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son, 
and Holy Ghost,” she said. “Amen.” 

Then she fell to crying, and the child’s faint, 
wheezing wail sounded, too. She warmed the 
oil over the chafing-dish fire and rubbed the cold 
little feet and hands. The minutes were hours, 
but Roddy would thank God when Billie wrote 
her that John’s baby had been baptized out of 
a Roman Catholic catechism! 

Meanwhile, Bruin, John’s greatcoat wrapped 
about her nightgown, and his high boots drawn 
over her bare limbs, was fighting her way through 
the snow. The wind had died, but it was a 
bitter night and the way was wellnigh impass- 


246 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


able. Bruin, up to her, waist in the snow, fell 
many times, and her breath came in hisses 
through her drawn teeth. Bruin would never 
forget that night. She met no one. The doctor’s 
house was only two streets away, but the panting 
woman was some time reaching it. She fell up 
the snow-heaped steps and rang the nightbell. 
Presently, a woman’s sleepy voice answered 
her. The doctor? He had gone on a call to 
Westfield and would not be back until morning. 

Bruin dragged herself around and staggered 
down the steps. There was no other physician 
for miles! She went very, very slowly through 
the snow now. She was not so cold, but she 
was tired and sleepy. Around the corner was 
the Roman Catholic church and next to it the 
priest’s house. They lay white and silent in 
the winter world. Bruin noticed a dim light 
in the lower hall, and, when she was abreast, 
fresh tracks through the snow to the front door. 
Bigoted Bruin stood before the parted snow- 
drifts and stared at the point of light. They 
called the priest Doctor Kennedy in the town 
and many poor people blessed him for his healing. 
Fierce hatred struggled with the mother-love in 
her breast and she stood, battling. 


JEROME HARTE 


247 


The door opened and Father Kennedy peered 
out. He had his coat on his arm. Indeed, he 
had just taken it off, having returned a moment 
since from a sick call. A woman’s tall form 
stood swaying in the snow piles at his gate. 
He started toward her, putting on his coat as he 
went and leaving the door ajar behind him. 

“My child,” he said, “what is the matter?” 

Bruin straightened herself, numbly. “ I am 
John Hana van’s wife,” she said. “My baby 
is dying and the doctor is away. I want a 
doctor.” 

“ I will be with you in a minute,” the priest 
said. 

He rejoined Bruin in a fraction of time. She 
was almost exhausted. He said little to her, 
but he took her arm and half-led, half-carried 
her through the snow. They were soon at the 
Hanavan house. 

The baby was unmistakably worse. His 
little face was blue and red by turns and his 
hoarse breathing could be heard all over the big 
house. Billie was trying to give him air as he 
coughed and choked and struggled for breath. 
Father Kennedy sprang across the room and 
took the baby from Billie’s weak arms. 


248 BHU IN AND Htik BABY 

“ Has this child been baptized?” he demanded, 
sternly. 

Bruin looked at the priest and shook her head, 
dumbly. She put her hand to her throat — 
and the baby caught his gasping breath in a 
racking whoop. All the hard, dogged lines of 
Bruin’s face were distorted with fear, and a 
quivering sob escaped her lips. 

“ Quick!” she moaned, “I — I’ll name him 
John!” She had evidently forgotten altogether 
the name of Woodward. 

In a flash, it came to distracted Billie that 
there was nothing for her to say. Perhaps, being 
a Protestant, her baptism was not valid, and 
anyway, Bruin ought not to be discouraged in 
her yielding. So she shut her lips firmly and in a 
moment it was all over, and John Hanavan, jun- 
ior, had been really baptized a Roman Catholic ! 

Then Father Kennedy became another man. 
His orders were quick, sharp, and decisive. He 
sent the girls scurrying for needed things, and 
he knew exactly what to do. 

“We must have heat!” he cried. “Where 
are your fireplaces?” 

They remembered the grate-fire in Bruin’s 
room, and in an instant, he had the gas lighted 


JEROME HARTE 


249 


and Bruin holding the baby close to it. He had 
medicine with him, and he sent Billie running 
to the basement for onions for an old-fashioned 
remedy. He held the baby while they heated 
blankets and hot water bottles at his direction; 
and in a little while, the child began to breathe 
more easily. It was a fight! Billie forgot that 
a priest, not a doctor, was at work! 

“I was afraid it was going to be membranous,” 
he said, “but he’s all right now.” 

The room grew warmer. Bruin sat holding 
her son close to the gas logs. The priest had 
forced some brandy on her and Billie had wrapped 
a bathrobe about her. She had stopped shiver- 
ing, and her face showed a great relief. The 
baby was breathing quietly. 

“ Now,” said the priest to Billie, “get dressed 
as soon as you can! We must have water and 
an even heat throughout the house if the baby 
is to recover. Fm used to steam heat and water 
pipes!” he laughed to Bruin. “They are as 
common as snow!” 

Billie lighted his way through the cold halls 
to the basement and to the cellars, and they both 
set to work. The water pipes were frozen, and 
the fire had been dead many hours, perhaps 


250 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


since the previous night, when the cook had left 
it in such a hurry. Billie brought and held 
things while the priest shovelled coal and melted 
the ice-filled water pipes. They toiled for it, but 
when they came upstairs after two hours of 
work, the water was running and the steam was 
sizzling through the radiators. Father Kennedy 
was begrimed, and Billie’s little face was black. 
At the foot of the basement stairs, Billie faced 
Father Kennedy. She was a timid girl and a 
priest had always seemed more of heaven than 
of earth to her. 

“I — I’m not a Catholic, Father,” she ventured, 
“but I have a Catholic catechism and I knew 
the baby hadn’t been baptized and I was afraid 
he’d die, and so I baptized him before you came!” 

The priest gazed at her, curiously. “Did you, 
my child?” he said. 

“Yes,” said Billie. “You see, his aunt told 
me that Mrs. Hanavan would not let her baby be 
baptized and they were all so afraid that he 
would die in an attack of croup. I was sure he 
was pretty ill — and you know, the catechism 
doesn’t say a Protestant couldn't baptize a 
Catholic child — does it? I thought I’d better 
risk it, Father. But when you came, I did not 


JEROME HARTE 


251 


know what to do! I thought if she was willing 
I might spoil it by telling her that he had been 
baptized; and anyway, it’s surer when you have 
baptized him, isn’t it? Bruin would never 
understand if I told her!” 

The priest smiled, thoughtfully. “Perhaps 
not, my child,” he said. “You did quite right, 
anyway.” He paused. “Why is it that you 
are not a Catholic?” he asked. 

“I wasn’t born one!” she laughed. “But 
really, Father, Mrs. Hanavan’s sister-in-law 
has been trying for ages to convert me and I 
guess she has just about succeeded. After I’d 
studied history at college, I could not see how 
any one could think any other religion right. 
It’s funny how many of us are blind, isn’t it, 
Father?” 

Father Kennedy left a warm house, a quiet 
baby, and two happier women when he went 
away at daybreak. He sent his housekeeper 
over to get breakfast for them; and when John 
Hanavan, alarmed that his repeated efforts to 
get Bruin by ’phone had failed, came home on 
the early morning train, the events of the night 
looked like a dream of the past. Billie saw John 
coming and she ran to the front door to meet him. 


252 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


“ The baby’s baptized, the baby’s baptized 
by Father Kennedy!” she cried. “Just think! 
He was dying of croup and Bruin went after the 
doctor with scarcely any clothes on — I thought 
she’d die before she got there! — and he wouldn’t 
be back until morning and she brought back the 
priest and the fire was out and the water pipes 
were frozen and he didn’t do anything until the 
baby had been baptized! Then he cured him 
and did everything! And oh! Bruin told him 
to hurry and name the baby John! He’s John, 
junior! Did you ever know anything so 
glorious, John! why don’t you say some- 
thing!” 

How could he? Billie followed him up to 
Bruin’s room and peeped in. 

The gas logs were going brightly and the room 
was very warm and a little steamy. Bruin still 
sat holding her blanketed baby to the fire. Her 
robe had slipped back from her nightdress, 
which was opened at the neck and badly be- 
draggled; her hair tumbled about her shoulders 
and into her heated face. She was holding her 
cheek against the baby’s little red bald head, 
when Billie looked in, and she had thrown her 
free arm about John’s shoulders, as he knelt 


JEROME HARTE 253 

with his arm about his wife and child. Bruin 
spied Billie sidling away. 

“ Billie, come here!” she cried, and Billie hardly 
knew her soft, rich voice. “ Didn’t you play 
godmother to the baby, Billie? and didn't we 
name him John? I was so shaky, John, I didn't 
know what was happening, but really, Billie 
is no kind of a godmother to have, is she, John? 
She's a Protestant! You're a Protestant, Billie, 
and how can you have a Catholic grandchild! 
Poor baby! he’ll be a great Catholic if much 
depends on Billie — and me! John, we must 
tell that wonderful man that perhaps Billie 
needs only an attack of croup to make her a 
Roman Catholic!” 

John turned his face to Billie. It was beauti- 
ful in its relief and shining happiness. “Billie,” 
he said, “what have you to say about it?” 

Billie faced them, her hands behind her back. 
“That’s all right!” she said, saucily. “You can 
just lay a wager I’ll see that John Hanavan, 
junior, has a proper Catholic training! All he 
needs is a converted mother! As for his god- 
mother, don't let that worry you! I always 
knew it was the only Right ! Why, any one who 
has studied history must see which is God's 


254 


BRUIN AND HER BABY 


church! I am a Roman Catholic! You ask 
Roddy! I’m looking for a godmother of my 
Own !” 

Bruin looked at her, soberly. “ Father Ken- 
nedy is an angel,” she said, softly. The baby 
stirred and gave a little hoarse cough. Bruin 
kissed him, lingeringly. “Muzzer’s own!” she 
whispered. 

“Bruin!” said Billie, “he’ll think you’re crazy! 
He’s not used to that, you know! Bruin, do you 
mind waiting until I get out? I’ve a very weak 
heart !” 

Bruin, the cold, the indifferent, had turned 
from John, junior, and had kissed John senior 
tenderly. His face changed, and Bruin laughed 
at Billie’s speech. Billie could detect no note 
of sharpness in that happy laugh. 

“I thought baby was going to die!” Bruin 
said, smoothing John’s bald spot. “Do you 
think to-night has turned my head, Billie? 
You are looking at me so strangely.” 

“ I think to-night seems to have done many 
beautiful things, Bruin,” Billie said. “Don’t 
kiss that baby again, he’ll get microbes. Bruin! 
anybody’d think you were a sentimental fresh- 
man !” 


JEROME HARTE 


255 


“Keep still, tease,” Bruin said, sweetly. “I’ve 
been through John’s purgatory to-night and 
the joy of release has intoxicated me. Perhaps 
you can’t understand, Billie. You’ve never 
had a baby.” 


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JUVENILE BOOKS 

20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young, by the Best Authors 
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You get the books at once, and have the use of them, while 

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JUVENILE LIBRARY A 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By Rev. F. J. 
Finn, S.J. “Best boy’s book that ever came from the press.” 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. Spald- 
ing, S.T. “This is a story full of go and adventure.” 

HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By 
Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “Father Copus takes the college 
hero where Father Finn has left him, through the years 
to graduation.” 

CHARLIE CHITTYWICK. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
Father Bearne shows a wonderful knowledge and fine ap- 
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NAN NOBODY. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Keeps one fas- 
cinated till the last page is reached.” 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By Marion A. 
Taggart. “Will help keep awake the strain of hero worship.” 

THE GOLDEN LILY. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Another 
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THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A 
bright, sparkling book.” 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. By Sara T. Smith. “A 
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THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. By Marion J. 
Brunowe. “Plenty of fun, with high moral principle.” 

BUNT AND BILL. By Clara Mulholland. “There are 
passages of true pathos and humor in this pretty tale.” 

THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. By Maurice F. Egan. 
“They are by no means faultless young people and their 
hearts lie in the right places.” 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella L. Dorsey. “This story 
is clever and witty — there is not a dull page.” 

A HOSTAGE OF WAR. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “A wide- 
awake story, brimful of incident and easy humor.” 

AN EVERY DAY GIRL. By Mary T. Crowley. “One of the 
few tales that will appeal to the heart of every girl.” 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. “This book will 
make a name for itself.” 

AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S. M. O’Malley. “The book is 
destined to become a true friend of our boys.” 

THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
Sure to stir the blood of every real boy and to delight with 
its finer touches the heart of every true girl. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. A real child’s tale. 

RIDINGDALE FLOWER SHOW. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. 
“His sympathy with boyhood is so evident and his under- 
standing so perfect-.” 

S 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
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JUVENILE LIBRARY B 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. Bv Rev. F. J. 
Finn, S.J. Profusely illustrated. “A delightful story by 
Father Finn, which will be popular with the girls as well 
as with the boys.” 

THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. 
Spalding, S.J. “From the outset the reader's attention is 
captivated and never lags.” 

SAINT CUTHBERT’S. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “A truly 
inspiring tale, full of excitement.” 

THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. “Polly 
with her cool head, her pure heart and stern Western sense 
of justice.” 

STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. 
“Takes hold of the interest and of the heart and never 
lets go.” 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. “Courage, 
truth, honest dealing with friend and foe.” 

A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. “Alive 
with the charm that belongs to childhood.” 

A COLLEGE BOY. By Anthony Yorke. “Healthy, full of 
life, full of incident.” 

THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By Katharine T. Hinkson. 
“Makes the most interesting and delightful reading.” 

THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
“The attractiveness of the tale is enhanced by the realness 
that pervades it.” 

THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full 
of people entertaining, refined, and witty.” 

PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to cap- 
tivate the hearts of all juvenile readers.” 

THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. Herchenbach. 
“Cannot fail to inspire honest ambition.” 

THE INUNDATION. By Canon Schmid. “Sure to please 
the young readers for whom it is intended.” 

THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Tag- 
gart. “Pleasing and captivating to young people.” 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. “Vivacious 
and natural and cannot fail to be a favorite.” 

BISTOURI. By A. Melandri. “How Bistouri traces out the 
plotters and foils them makes interesting reading.” 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. “The 
heroine wins her way into the heart of every one.” 

THE SEA-GULL’S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. “The intrepidity 
of the little hero will appeal to every boy.” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. A collection of 
twenty stories by the foremost writers, with illustrations. 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special Net Price, $10.00 
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Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

JUVENILE LIBRARY C 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. 
F. J. Finn, S.J. “The most successful Catholic juvenile 
published.” 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H. S. Spald- 
ing, S.J. “Father Spalding’s descriptions equal those of 
Cooper.” 

SHADOWS LIFTED. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.T. “We know 
of no books more delightful and interesting. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER 
STORIES. By Maurice F. Egan. “A choice collection of 
stories by one of the most popular writers.” 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. May. “Chap- 
ters of breathless interest.” 

MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. “The best 
story Sara Trainer Smith has ever written.” 

THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Wagga- 
man. “An excellent girl’s story.” 

THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. “How 
the plotters are captured and the boy rescued makes a very 
interesting story.” 

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel 
Ferry. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of 
color and warmth of life in old Mexico.” 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By Mary G. Bonesteel. 
“Many a boyish heart will beat in envious admiration of 
little Tommy.” 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion A. Taggart. “A 
creditable book in every way.” 

THE QUEEN’S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
“Will arouse the young to interest in historical matters 
and is a good story well told.” 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
“Sprightly, interesting and well written.” 

BOB-O’LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Every boy and girl 
will be delighted with Bob-o’Link.” 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. 
Taggart. “There is an exquisite charm in the telling.” 

WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. Herchenbach. “A simple 
tale, entertainingly told.” 

THE CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. “The story is a 
fine one and will be enjoyed by boys and girls.” 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The children who 
are blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for ” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection 
of twenty stories by the foremost writers, illustrated. 


20 COPYRIGHTED STORIES FOR THE YOUNG 

BY THE BEST CATHOLIC WRITERS 
Special IMet Price, $10.00 
$ 1.00 down, $i.oo a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

JUVENILE LIBRARY D 

THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Beaune, S.J. 
“Here is a story for boys that bids fair to equal any of 
Father Finn’s successes.” 

THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There 
is a peculiar charm about this novel that the discriminating 
reader will ascribe to the author’s own personality. 

HARMONY FLATS. By C. S. Whitmore. The characters 
are all drawn true to life, and the incidents are exciting. 

WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for 
girls. Its youthful readers will enjoy the vivid description, 
lively conversation, and the many striking incidents. 

TOM LOSELY: BOY. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. Illustrated. 
The writer knows boys boy nature, and small-boy 

nature too. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The 
children who are blessed with such stories have much to be 
thankful for.” 

JACK O’LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This book is 
alive with interest. It is full of life and incident. 

THE BERKLEYS. By Emma Howard Wight. A truly in- 
spiring tale, full of excitement. There is not a dull page. 

LITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. A charming story 
for children which will be enjoyed by older folks as well. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. By Mary T. Waggaman. Full of fun 
and charming incidents — a book that every boy should read. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. By Mary E. Mannix. One of the 
most thoroughly unique and charming books that has found 
its way to the reviewing desk in many a day. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This 
book is more than a story, and it is well written. 

THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E. G. Martin. 
Those who wish to get a fascinating tale should read this. 

THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of Otto v. Schach- 
ing, by Sara Trainer Smith. There is much truth in this 
simple little story. 

“JACK.” By S. H. C. J. As loving and lovable a little fellow 
as there is in the world is “Jack.” 

A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. This 
is a beautiful book, in full sympathy with and delicately 
expressive of the author’s creations. 

DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. A fine boys’ story. 

THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interest- 
ing that the reader will find it hard to tear himself away. 

TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. An exciting story of 
the varied fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty 
in a dismal cellar to success. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE, Third Series. A collection of 
twenty stories by the foremost writers. 

5 


CATHOLIC CIRCULATING LIBRARY 

Dues, 10 Cents a Month A New Book Every Month 

NOVELS 

12 Copyrighted Novels toy th.© Best A.vitliors 
Special Brice, $12.00 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them while 
making easy payments 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. I 

THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. “Will 
charm any reader.” 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. “A 
real, true life history, the kind one could live through and 
never read it for romance. . . .” 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By Marion A. Taggart. 
Illustrated. ‘‘A tale of the time of Henry V. of England, 
full of adventure and excitement.” 

HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. Edhor. “It is a tale that will 
leave its reader the better for knowing its heroine, her 
tenderness and her heart of gold.” 

THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By Countess Hahn* 
Hahn. “An exquisite story of life and love, told in touch- 
ingly simple words.” 

THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Skill and 
strength are shown in this story. The plot is well con- 
structed and the characters vividly differentiated.” 

THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South 
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writer of distinct ability. 

IDOLS; OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D’AN- 
TIN. By Raoul de Navery. “The story is a remarkably 
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THE SOGGARTH AROON. By Rev. Joseph Guinan, C.C. 
A capital Irish story. 

THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By Maurice F. 
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scene is laid in a pleasant colony of cultivated people on 
the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point.” 

A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By Christian Reid. “That great 
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a story true in its picture of Americans at home and abroad.” 

PASSING SHADOWS. By Anthony Yorke. “A thoroughly 
charming story. It sparkles from first to last with interest- 
ing situations and dialogues that are full of sentiment. 
There is not a slow page.” 


6 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Special Net Price, $12.00 

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Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 


LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. II 

THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT’S WAGER, and Other Stories. 
30 stories by 30 of the foremost Catholic writers. 

A DAUGHTER OF KINGS. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
“The book is most enjoyable.” 

THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. Harrison. “The 
story does not drag, the plot is well worked out, and the 
interest endures to the very last page.” 

CORINNE’S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full- 
page illustrations. “There is genuine artistic merit in its 
plot and life-story. It is full of vitality and action.” 

THE FATAL BEACON. By F. v. Brackel. “The story is 
told well and clearly, and has a certain charm that will be 
found interesting. The principle characters are simple, 
good-hearted people, and the heroine’s high sense of courage 
impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds.” 

THE MONK’S PARDON : An Historical Romance of the Time 
of Philip IV. of Spain. By Raoul de Navery. “A story 
full of stirring incidents and written in a lively, attrac- 
tive style.” 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. By Walter Lecky. “The char- 
acters are life-like and there is a pathos in the checkered 
life of the heroine. Pere Monnier is a memory that will 
linger.” 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
“One of the most thoroughly original and delightful ro- 
mances ever evolved from the pen of a Catholic writer.” 

THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Tag- 
gart. With four full-page illustrations. “This story tells of 
the adventures of a young American girl, who, in order to 
get possession of a fortune left her by an uncle whom she 
had never seen, goes to France.” 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. “A well- 
told story of American life, the scene laid in Boston, New 
York and California. It is very interesting.” 

FABIOLA’S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal 
Wiseman’s “Fabiola.”) Adapted by A. C. Clarke. “A book 
to read — a worthy sequel to that masterpiece, ‘Fabiola.’ ” 

THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A. de La- 
mothe. “A capital novel with plenty of go in it. 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Special Net Price, $112.00 

$1 .00 down, $1.00 a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 

LIBRARY OF NOVELS No. Ill 

“NOT A JUDGMENT.” By Grace Keon. “Beyond doubt the • 
best Catholic novel of the year.” 

THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A 
story of stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans 
rose in defence of country and religion.” 

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hink- 
son. “So dramatic and so intensely interesting that the • 
reader will find it difficult to tear himself away from the 
story.” 

OUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt. “Once his book becomes 
known it will be read by a great many.” 

MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Mnlholland. Mr. Gladstone , 
called this novel a masterpiece. 

THE CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. 
This work has achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic 
novel, for in less than a year three editions were printed. 

CARROLL DARE. By Mary T. Waggaman. Illustrated. “A 
thrilling story, with the dash of horses and the clash of 
swords on every side.” 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. “Dion is as 
brilliantly, as accurately and as elegantly classical, as 
scholarly in style and diction, as fascinating in plot and as 
vivid in action as Ben Hur.” 

HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. Ross. A clever story with 
an interesting and well-managed plot and many striking 
situations. 

MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. “A captivating tale of Irish 
life, redolent of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos.” 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. “The figures 
who move in rugged grandeur through these pages are as 
fresh and unspoiled in their way as the good folk of 
Drumtochty.” 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bert- 
holds. “A story of which the spirit is so fine and the 
Catholic characters so nobly conceived.” 


8 


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Thus for $5.00 a year — paid $1.25 at a time 
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LIBRARY OF SHORT STORIES 


BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS 
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Anna T. Sadlier 
Mary E. Mannix 
Mary T. Waggaman 
Jerome Harte 
Mary G. Bonesteel 
Magdalen Rock 
Eugenie Uhlrich 
Alice Richardson 
Katharine Jenkins 
Mary Boyle O’Reilly 
Clara Mulholland 
Grace Keon 
Louisa Emily Dobree 
Theo. Gift 
Margaret E. Jordan 
Agnes M. Rowe 
Julia C. Walsh 


STORIES BY 

Madge Mannix 
Leigh Gordon Giltner 
Eleanor C. Donnelly 
Teresa Stanton 
H. J. Carroll 

Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. 
Marion Ames Taggart 
Maurice Francis Egan 
Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
Mrs. Francis Chadwick 
Catherine L. Meagher 
Anna Blanche McGill 
Mary Catherine Crowley 
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Sallie Margaret O’Malley 
Emma Howard Wight 


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THE LIFE OF OUR LORD 

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